


Blinding

by FrostyChess



Series: at last, the dawn [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M, I'm jumping on the bandwagon yay, IT'S NOT MY FAULT, Jacob Frye is just so ugh, Moderate depictions of violence, Original Character Death(s), Original Characters - Freeform, POV Original Character, Slow Burn, Some Description of Violence, Title from a Florence and the Machine song, Violence, Wordcount: Over 100.000, because it fits, some description of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 116,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyChess/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>...they will all fall by her blade.</i>"</p><p>the story of a woman after vengeance, and the allies she finds along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lose Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my other fic that I've been working on (instead of gasoline oops) but there's good reason, I swear. well, there's not. but c'mon - it's _Jacob Frye_. there's no resisting that dork.

The rain falls in sheets around her, hitting her skin like tiny needles.

Her heels click against the cobblestones as she quickens her pace, darting through back alleys and around corners, checking over her shoulders every thirty seconds, suspicious of everything that moves.

She clutches the leather bag close to her side, comforted by its weight at her hip and the contents within.

_I just need to reach Millie_ , she thinks, wiping rain from her brow, pushing her soaking wet hair from her eyes. _I just need to reach Millie._

Lottie's been repeating the words over and over again in her head, a mantra to get her through the silence of London's streets. Every corner she turns, she expects to see more red tweed coats, more wicked smirks, more angry scowls.

So far, she's been lucky. She's managed to avoid them, managed to hear them coming, managed to turn and find a way around them.

She doesn't want to think about what will happen when her luck eventually runs out. It always does, after all. Her father is evidence of _that_.

_I just need to reach Millie_.

She's rubbing her hands together, trying to get warm. She's trying not to overthink the situation she's in, trying not to think back to an hour ago, when Sarah had caught her listening in on her father's conversation. She's trying to not _think_ about anything, trying to get to Millie's, to the safest place she can think to be right now.

Tears burn at Lottie's eyes and she clutches the strap of the bag to distract herself. She can't turn back now, not when her dress is weighed down by rainwater, not when her hidden blades are buried at the bottom of her bag, not when she's crying so much she can barely see straight.

_Millie's_ , she thinks. _I must be close_.

She's not sure how long or how far she's walked but she's passing St Paul's Cathedral now and she must be close because her legs are close to giving out. It must be near midnight and she's never walked to Millie's before and certainly not in the dead of night, in empty streets lit only by the gently glowing gaslights.

The hem of her dress is soaked, at least five inches dirtied by the muck of London and the rain. She's freezing, shivering and her lips are trembling. If she doesn't reach Millie's soon, Lottie thinks she'll come down with a fever, or perhaps worse.

Word must have spread; Lynch must have informed Nora, she knows he must have. There's no way he'd just let her escape, not after what she heard him to say to her father.

Lottie refuses to think about it. She can't let it distract her now, can't let it stop her from getting to Millie's, to _safety_.

_Do not let your personal feelings compromise the mission_ , her father used to tell her, at the start of her training, periodically through the years as she improved steadily.

But now he's dead. And Lottie is fleeing from the scene, from Lynch, frightened, crying. She's left everyone behind; Noah, Sarah, John, everyone who'd helped her escape when Sarah found her eavesdropping at that door.

Noah had opened that door Lottie hadn't even known existed and Sarah had thrust the bag she's carrying now at her, shoved her down the cold passageway.

"Run, miss," Noah had told her urgently, looking over his shoulder, to the door, to John, keeping look-out. "If they catch ye, yer as good as dead."

She hadn't been thinking straight, and her hands were shaking so bad that Sarah had to help her slip the bag strap over her head. The tears had started early - and have yet to stop - and she can't un-see her father's empty eyes, the way his body had fallen forward, the single gunshot wound in the centre of his forehead.

"Run, miss!" Sarah told her.

They'd shoved her down the passage one last time, shut the door, and they were gone.

The orphanage comes into sight, a single candle lit in a window. Hope flares in her chest and Lottie sniffles one last time, wipes at her nose and eyes. She's soaked straight through now and her legs are aching but she presses on, forces herself to run to the door.

Her knocking is erratic and loud, mirroring her pounding heartbeat, and she doesn't stop until the door is swinging open. The woman who answers is wearing an annoyed scowl but it quickly melts away into concern when she sees Lottie, when she takes in her haggard appearance, her bloodshot eyes.

"Lottie!"

Millie ushers her inside quickly, shuts the door behind her. Lottie lets herself be guided to the small kitchen, words tumbling from her mouth, quiet and stuttering, hands still shaking, eyes still blurring with fresh tears.

"I'm s-so sorry, Millie," she says, the words coming in a rush. "I d-don't mean t-to bother you s-so late-"

Millie shushes her, and seconds later the woman has placed a blanket over her shoulders. She's muttering under her breath, sticking the kettle over the fireplace, bustling around the small space.

"I knew there was somethin' not right," she's saying, "God help me, I _knew_."

Lottie uses the blanket to wipe the rain from her face, the tears from her cheeks, and slowly she's beginning to warm up. She's still sniffling, still shivering now and again, but it's better than being outside in the pouring rain, running from the enemy, the Blighters, the _Templars_.

The mug Millie places in front of her is dirty and cracked, the complete opposite to what Lottie is used to having. She can't stop herself from thinking it, hates herself for it straight afterwards, thinks that she'll probably have to start getting used to living like this if she wants to stay alive.

She uses it to warm up her hands instead, thinking that if she eats or drinks anything, she'll throw it right back up. Her father's face lingers in her mind, pale, lifeless, _accusing_.

_I didn't do anything_ , she thinks over and over, until she's whispering it aloud, until it's all she can say, until Millie is taking her hands in her own.

"Lottie?" her voice is gentle, worried, and her eyes are so kind, just like she remembers. "What didn't you do?"

"I didn't help," Lottie whispers. "They killed him and I just -"

Millie doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. Lottie knows that Millie has figured it out. There's no other reason for Lottie to appear at the woman's door in the middle of the night, soaked and chilled to the bone.

Lottie says it anyway, because she needs to hear it, because saying it aloud is the only way to make it true.

"My father is dead."

There's no sound save for the wood snapping in the fireplace, save for Lottie's sniffles and occasional sobs. Millie keeps holding her hands and eventually draws her close and into a hug, rubbing her back, comforting her in the only way she knows how.

She doesn't pull away until Lottie has quieted, until she's calmer, until a little voice at the doorway causes them both to look over.

Daniel looks at Lottie with round, innocent eyes, in the way children do. Lottie tries to smile at him but it's watery and fake, and she's so tired.

"Daniel," Millie says, "you should be in bed."

"I had a nightmare," says the little boy.

He draws closer, until he's near the table, until he could reach out with his little hand and take Lottie's own if he wanted to.

Lottie wishes she could go back to that age, to that innocence, to a time before she'd had to grow up and learn about the Assassin-Templar War, to a time before she'd had to decide what side she was on.

She doesn't want to be a warrior anymore, doesn't want to be an Assassin. She wants to be a young lady in a time of progress and industrialisation. She wants to be Charlotte Crawley, daughter of Jonathan Crawley, a young woman to be admired and courted.

She wants to be ordinary.

She doesn't want to be Charlotte Crawley, Assassin of the London Brotherhood, the last Crawley of her line.

For a second she imagines that she's none of those people. She imagines that she's just _Lottie_.

Lottie, the rebellious young woman who sneaks out in the middle of the night to see orphaned children.

Lottie, who willingly ruins her dresses and risks fevers to see her friends.

Lottie, who donates money to Millie's orphanage, to the children, to help them try to get a good life.

Lottie reaches out and takes Daniels little hand in her own.

"Me too," she says. "Me too."

Millie smiles softly and takes Lottie's other hand.

"Let's get you warmed up," she says. Her gaze turns pointed, strict, parental as she gets to her feet, looking down at little Daniel. "And _you_ need to get back to bed."

Lottie's laugh is quiet, broken - for now. She thinks she'll feel better after sleep, now that she's cried all her tears, now that the anger is beginning to seep into the dark recesses of her mind, her thoughts.

Lottie doesn't understand why Lynch came after her father _now_ , of all times, when they've been in London unbothered for nearing a decade. She doesn't understand but wants to and she will.

She follows Millie upstairs, waits patiently in the other woman's room while she sees to Daniel. She's still cold and she needs to get out of her damp clothes soon. She'll destroy this dress in the morning, destroy one of the reminders of this night.

She'll remember it forever, she knows, it's impossible that she won't, but it will help her.

Millie hands her a grey nightgown when she comes back into the room and a jug with painted blue flowers on it. It looks old, steam rising from the contents and to the ceiling. Lottie sets the gown on the bed beside her and Millie helps her out of her gown, helps her undo the corset strings behind her.

She steps into the small metal tub by the fireplace and pours the water over her head, slowly, imagines that she's wiping away her fears too, her tears and worries, not just the dirt on her skin. It's not what's she's used to, pouring water over herself from a jug, but she makes do, refuses to complain when Millie could just as easily force her out onto the streets.

"What will you do now?" Millie asks, when they're both settled in the small bed.

Lottie is staring at the ceiling and she thinks the questions over and over in her head before she answers.

She's not sure what she wants, not anymore. But then, she wasn't sure what she wanted before either. Her father had been pushing her to help Henry Green, to officially take up the mantle of Assassin but she hadn't been keen. She'd been putting it off for a long time, and now Jonathan Crawley will never see his daughter continue her parent's work.

It would be the best way to honour them, she thinks, but she doesn't know where to even start.

Until tonight, she'd never thought much about the Assassin-Templar War. She'd felt that she wasn't even involved. She hadn't been aware that they were being plotted against, that they had been marked for death for months now, just for their affiliation to the Brotherhood.

Lottie has never paid attention to London, not until tonight, when she'd fled her home and ran through the back alleys. She'd never seen the families huddled by the walls until tonight, until she'd been forced to pass them. She'd never seen the orphans, the unlucky ones forced to beg for pennies, for _life_.

She'd never seen London so broken before.

_This is the Templar's doing_ , she thinks. _This is Lynch_.

"I don't know," she tells Millie but she _does_.

The Templars will die.

Lynch will die.

And they will all fall by her blade.


	2. Whitechapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie meets Clara and hears about the Frye's.

Lottie leaves early, when the sun is still rising and the streets are still empty.

Millie sees her to the door, hugs her tearfully, dabbing at her eyes with a dirty grey washcloth. She tells her that her dress from last night will be taken care of; she'll burn it, just like Lottie wants, even if she thinks it's a waste.

"I'll see you soon," Lottie tells her, adjusting the collar of her jacket again.

Millie slaps her hands away, fixes what Lottie just tried to sort herself.

"Leave it alone," she admonishes fondly. "You look fine."

It's the first time in her life that Lottie has looked the part, has worn the outfit packed for her quickly by Sarah and Noah. When she'd drawn it out of the bag, she'd hesitated, held it in front of her for five minutes before Millie had coughed lightly, forcing her into action.

It's strange, she thinks, to be wearing something like this, something completely unlike the tight corsets she's used to, the long, heavy skirts.

Millie dabs her eyes again, shakes her head so lightly Lottie almost misses it. She cocks her head, confused, concerned, and the older woman shakes her head again, more noticeably this time as she tucks a loose strand of grey hair behind her ear.

"What's wrong?" Lottie asks softly, taking Millie's hands, bending slightly to meet the smaller woman's eyes. "I'm not leaving _forever_."

"No, no," Millie says, sniffling. She dabs her eyes again, lowers the washcloth from her cheek. "You just look so much like your mother."

Lottie smiles to hide the fact that she wants to cry again, wants to curl up in a ball and never leave Millie or the orphanage. No one has ever told her that, not even her father. No one has ever wanted to remind her of the fact that she was raised without her mother's influence on her life.

Lottie knows the outfit she wears belonged to her mother, probably the outfit she wore when she was Lottie's age, but she had hoped the similarities between them wouldn't be quite so obvious. She feels like a knife has been plunged into her heart and twisted, the pain of the wound still far too fresh. She hopes no one else will bring it up again.

"Thank you," she manages to say.

There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow and the words come out strangled and raw. She doesn't feel honoured to be wearing her mother's clothes. If she had things her way, she wouldn't need to be wearing them at all.

Millie sniffles again, pushes Lottie gently out the door.

"Oh, look at me," she says. She takes a deep breath, calms herself. "You'd think I was never going to see you again, the way I'm acting."

Lottie smiles. "I'll see you soon, Millie. I will."

"I know. Now get out of here."

Lottie's smile turns big and broad, a grin that stretches her lips and makes her cheeks hurt. She doesn't look behind her as she leaves, afraid that if she does she'll change her mind, disappear into that orphanage and never come out again.

The heels of her boots click on the cobblestones as she comes away and she feels so strange walking in public dressed the way she is. She's not used to the long jacket and the leather trousers, or the long boots that come up over her knees. She's expecting to run into young women she knows, expecting them to gasp and be scandalised, decide she's not worth their time anymore, talk about her behind her back.

_They do that anyway_ , Lottie thinks with a frown. _Why am I so worried_?

She fiddles with her sleeves, adjusts her hidden blades and her hood, checks over her shoulder in case she's being tailed. It's early and she hasn't eyed any Blighters on the street yet but that doesn't mean they aren't there. They'll still be looking for her, she thinks. They're not going to stop until she's dead, until there are no Crawley's left in London to threaten them.

_But we weren't_ , Lottie thinks. _Father was retired. He hadn't worked for the Brotherhood for years_.

There are too many unanswered questions buzzing around her brain, taunting her, the answers just out of reach. The regrets are just as frequent, popping up uninvited, lingering in the back of her mind, drawing her attention.

Lottie sighs, tucks her blonde hair behind her ears, and trudges onwards.  She's going to start in Whitechapel, the farthest away she can get from Lynch – for now. She thinks Henry Green, a name she's heard her father mention on more than one occasion, someone she knows will be safe, an ally, will be there.

_He'll be thinking the same as me_ , she reasons quietly as she crosses the road, in front of an empty carriage. _Whitechapel is far away from the Templar presence._

If there's one thing Lottie knows about the Assassins, it's that their presence is severely lacking in London.

_Maybe it wouldn't be this bad if I'd helped sooner_ , Lottie thinks glumly, passing a couple of orphans on the street, their small dirty hands held out and pleas on their lips. She doesn't have any money to give them, thinks any money she does have will be in Templar hands now.

Or nearly, anyway.

Lottie sighs again, lifting her head to look up the long road ahead of her. She entertains the idea of stealing the carriage behind her, imagines that she could probably get away before the driver even notices what's happened, but just with that, a short, chubby looking man comes out of the nearby shop and climbs in.

Lottie's sigh is quiet and defeated and her feet pound the pavement a little harder than usual as she treks away, the sound of the horse's hooves on the stones haunting her.

 

It's mid-afternoon by the time she reaches some of the more rundown parts of Whitechapel.

She's regretting the decision to come to this area of London; it's more run down than what she's used to. There are more orphans on the streets, more homeless people, more families begging for money.

It's more difficult to ignore them when they're everywhere she turns.

Lottie doesn't know where to start looking for Henry Green. Everywhere she turns, there are more and more people, more and more possible threats, she thinks, but she's yet to see any Blighters. It's confusing, being in an area with so little of them after she's just escape an area with so many.

She turns onto another street, spies a couple of children loitering in an alleyway across the road from her. She dismisses them as threats with an idle shake of her head, puts it down to her own paranoia.

Even when one of them is following her she doesn't think much on it. She has nothing worth stealing; her money is at home, her _real_ home, the home she can't return to anymore and she refused to take anything from Millie.

Her lack of money only begs to remind her that she _must_ find Henry Green.

_He has associates_ , Millie had told her. _I don't know who, but dressed the way you are- well, let's just say they'll know you_.

Lottie has been here an hour and not found anyone.

"Miss! Miss!"

Lottie stops, looks over her shoulder. A little girl is sprinting towards her and the little huddle of children from the mouth of alley have disappeared. Lottie eyes the girl with curiosity, knows she must look intimidating to anyone else; dressed in black, scowling, quite clearly armed.

As she turns to face the girl, she watches her little eyes dart to the belt of throwing knives strapped to Lottie's thigh then to her arms, the _bracers_.

Warning bells are going off in her head – there is something not quite right about this girl.

"Yes?" she asks, voice level and polite.

The girl looks up at Lottie with none of the childish innocence she's used to seeing, the innocence she saw in Daniel just the night before. In fact, now that the girl is right in front of her, Lottie can't see anything childish about her; she looks older than she is, wiser to the world. One of her braids, messily done, with strands sticking out everywhere, is over her shoulder, the other down her back.

She catches her breath, then says, "You're not Charlotte Crawley, by any chance, are ya, miss?"

Lottie steps back, wary, searching for potential threats, checking the rooftops around her. She looks at the girl again, sternly this time, more studiously than before. She's looking for red in the people around them, on the girl, anything to alert Lottie to this child's loyalties.

She's ready to run, ready to get the _hell_ out of Whitechapel, when the little lady raises both hands, placating her.

"I know Mr Green," she says and then, quieter, "and I know what that symbol on your coat means."

_A lot of people do_ , Lottie wants to say, but as it stands, this child is the only lead she has to Green.

She nods at the girl.

"Lead the way," she says, inclining her head.

"I'm Clara," says the girl and she thrusts her hand out for Lottie to shake.

She takes it.

"Lottie," she replies.

"Terribly sorry to hear about your father," Clara continues. She ignores the way Lottie's breath hitches, the way she turns her head and tries to avoid the conversation. "He was always real nice, whenever I saw him."

_That_ piques her interest.

"You saw him often, did you?"

Clara nods. "Yes. He came round once a week. Always brought sweets."

Lottie frowns. Her father said those were business meetings that he went away to every week, nothing for her to worry her pretty little head about. She wonders if that's all it is, if treating orphans to sweets once a week is something worth being murdered over.

She knows it's not.

This girl, Clara, is an associate of an Assassin – an Assassin that her father was probably an associate of as well. Nothing is ever black and white anymore, Lottie realises, and she begins to wonder if she knew her father at all.

Clara leads her down streets and across roads, up alleys until Lottie begins to notice something very significant.

"Where are all the Blighters?" she asks, checking over her shoulder, suddenly worried that the name is taboo, that they'll sense someone saying the name.

"Gone," answers Clara, with a smug little grin. "Mr and Miss Frye took care of them."

_Frye_? _Was my father consolidating with them behind my back too_?

"I thought Kaylock was in charge of the Blighters here? He wouldn't just hand over control."

"He didn't," says Clara. She's still smiling. "They took it from him."

Her statement lets Lottie open her eyes to the men and women walking around her, heads held high, weapons dangling from holsters at their hips. She spies some wearing yellow sashes, some wearing green jackets. Whitechapel still looks like a dirty hole compared to where Lottie has been but the people here look better, happier, more comfortable.

Lottie's angry that she didn't notice before; her skills must be rusty.

A rival gang, Lottie realises. The Blighters have been wiped out of Whitechapel.

"Well I'll be," she mutters. "I think I need to meet those two."


	3. Siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie meets the Frye's.

Lottie thinks Clara is pulling her leg when she leads her into the train station.

She thinks she's being made for a fool when Clara stops in front of a train and gestures her inside.

Clara rolls her eyes. "Just go in."

Lottie's not in the mood to argue so she does. To her right, there's a carriage full of men and women wearing green and yellow jackets. To her left, she hears voices, and she follows her gut instinct, arrives just in time to hear the end of a conversation.

She hears a voice, low and growly and _sexy_.

"I knew you would, _Greenie_."

There's a woman wearing black and a man wearing white with their backs to her and another studying what Lottie thinks if a pistol of some kind, standing in profile. He has dark hair and a strong jaw that's dusted with stubble. Dark sideburns line the sides of his face and his eyes seem sharp alert, as he studies the gun-like device in his hands. His jacket is ripped at the seams and falling apart. On his head is a flat cap and his lips are turned down in a scowl.

The woman looks more refined with the same dark hair as the man but a straighter back and a kinder face. Her cheeks are sprinkled with dark freckles that would anyone else look childish, but they make her look older, wise to the world. They have the likeness of brother and sister, Lottie thinks, but they're completely oblivious to her presence until the doorframe creeks when she leans against it.

Three pairs of eyes and three bodies fully face her. She watches surprised expressions morph into blank slates, watches hands reach for weapons.

Lottie rolls her eyes. She knows she hasn't been doing this _assassin_ thing for very long but even she could have gotten the jump of these three.

"Easy," she says, lifting hands palms up. "I'm not a threat."

"How are we supposed to know that?" says the woman. She's reaching for a throwing knife, not even subtle about it, and Lottie notes that her belt is the same as this woman's, that it must be standard issue or something.

Lottie pushes off the doorframe.

"Clara led me here," she says.

The man in white - an Indian man, Lottie notes, stands straighter and she watches as he recognises her, sees the exact moment he realises who she is. She wonders if he sees her father in her, wonders if he thought she was dead too.

"Charlotte," Lottie says. She holds her hand out to the man in white - Henry Green, she thinks, because he looks like the most responsible one here, the most experienced. "Charlotte Crawley."

He takes her hand, shakes it firmly. "Henry Green. I am sorry about your father."

Lottie nods curtly and doesn't reply.

The other two are more relaxed now. The woman isn't reaching for a knife anymore and the man behind her - he has a scar on his eyebrow, Lottie notes, though she isn't sure why - has lowered the hand holding the bracer. He's watching her as closely as she watches him.

"Evie Frye," the woman says. They shake hands quickly, so quickly that Lottie thinks they needn't have bothered at all. "And this is my brother, Jacob. My condolences for your loss."

Lottie remains silent. She watches Evie slap her brother on the arm, watches the man glower at his sister. Evie's nod in Lottie's direction is small, nearly unnoticeable, and Lottie knows exactly what she wants Jacob to do.

So she stops him before he can start.

"So you're the Frye's Clara was telling me about," she says, lips tilted up in a half smirk. She's leaning on the doorframe again, watching the siblings closely, watching Henry look fondly at the two of them.

Jacob bows, a sarcastic smirk planted on his face.

"The one and only," he says and his voice is _beautiful_.

Lottie returns the friendly smirk, unable to look away from this charming man in front of her, from the elegant woman at his side who seems so used to his antics. Jacob's smirk looks natural on his face with the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

He doesn't look like an assassin, Lottie thinks. He's too carefree, too young, too aloof and he doesn't seem to fit with the Brotherhood, not the way Evie does, not the way Henry does.

Lottie begins to wonder if they're thinking the same thing about her, that she doesn't belong here, that she doesn't have the look of an assassin. Because she doesn't and no one knows that more than she does.

Lottie has never belonged with the Brotherhood and she doubts if she ever will.

_Lynch_ , Lottie reminds herself. _Lynch is what's important. He's the only reason I'm even here_.

She looks away, to the floor and the train rocks as it leaves the station. She hears its screeching on the rails, catches herself before she can stumble when it leaves the station.

Lottie clears her throat. "I hear the two of you are to thank for the Blighters leaving Whitechapel with their tails between their legs."

Jacob's smirk turns into an impish grin. He sets the bracer down on the table beside him, stands straighter and to more attention, as though the conversation has only just begun to interest him.

"The handy work of my trusty Rooks," he says smugly, arms across his chest, chin aloft.

Lottie blinks. "Rooks?"

"Jacob's gang," says Evie with a derisive scoff. Lottie gets the impression that she's not impressed with her brother's _gang_.

"Without my Rooks," Jacob says, with a pointed look to Evie and her sardonic scowl, "we would never have won Whitechapel from the Blighters."

"You don't know that," replies his sister. She's walking away. "We need to start planning how to locate the Piece of Eden before the Templars. That's what's important."

"I do, actually," he says haughtily and he ignores the rest of what his sister said. He looks at Lottie, says conspiratorially, "Without them, Kaylock would've never come out of his hole and _we_ -" he raises his voice, because Evie has left the car, hopped over the small gap into the empty one further along "-would never have fallen heir to this train!"

Henry pats her arm, goes to follow after Evie.

"Take care, Miss Crawley," he says. "I shall return shortly to bring you up to speed, so to speak."

Lottie nods, opens her mouth to agree with him, to say, _yes, that would be nice, but you need to know I'm not here to help, I just want to kill Lynch and go back to my life_ , but Jacob has come to her side and he's shooing Henry away. He throws an arm over her shoulder and he smells like smoke and spice and Lottie shrugs his arm off even though she finds she kind of likes it there.

"No need Greenie," he says, "I'll do that."

Henry nods. "Visit Alexander Graham Bell - he's an associate of mine. He may be able to help you fix that."

His waves absently to the device in Jacob's hand; it looks like a gun, Lottie sees now that she's closer, but there's a hook on the end of it.

Henry rattles off an address and adds, "You two get a head start and Miss Frye and I will meet you there."

"Alright," Lottie agrees hesitantly. She watches Henry follow after Evie, bites her tongue even though she wants nothing more than to say that she's not actually there to _help_ them take London back from the Templars.

Jacob pockets the gun in his threadbare jacket, pats it like he's worried it will fall through the fabric and gestures in front of him for Lottie to go first.

"A true gentleman," she says, and instantly she can't help but feel like that's one of the many words that probably wouldn't be used to describe him.

They stand between cars, staring at the ground moving under their feet, at the buildings they pass. They're still in Whitechapel - though only just.

Jacob's wolfish grin has returned to his face and he sweeps his hand out in front of her, repeating his gesture from before.

"Shall we?" he says and Lottie hates how infectious his attitude is, how easily she's swept up in him. She thinks that maybe helping the Brotherhood won't be so bad if she's sticking with Jacob Frye, if she's killing Templars and freeing London from Blighter control.

When he jumps from the train she follows.


	4. The Impetuous Jacob Frye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie gets a taste of how Jacob Frye works.

Lambeth is what Lottie is used to; bustling streets and angry people, busy market places and annoyed carriage drivers.

It's comforting, she thinks, to know that London hasn't changed, even when Lottie feels like everything she knows about the city is falling out from under her.

There's a brisk wind but the sun is hot on their faces and the clouds above them are thin and sparse. Lottie's hair is blown into her eyes, over her shoulders and more than once, Jacob has had to stop his hat from taking off from his head.

He's filled her in on everything that's happened in London, informed her that he and his sister have already started making connections in the police force and with the _urchins_.

"Urchins?" Lottie had asked, brows furrowed.

"Children," Jacob had replied and his lips turned down as he told her disdainfully, "Clara is their _leader_."

Jacob doesn't seem to like Clara, Lottie has realised, though she's not sure why. He muttered something about losing money and never getting it back when she asked and then he'd gone quiet, told her he'd race her to the nearest vantage point.

He won, gloated in her face about it for an hour, and Lottie put it down the fact her skills are rusty.

"Well, we'll just have to change that, won't we?"

He's cocky and arrogant and reckless and everything Lottie's father would have warned her away from.

So, naturally, Lottie finds an unexplainable attraction to him, a pull she can't hope to prevent.

Lottie blames said attraction for her current situation, crouching on this rooftop beside Jacob Frye, listening to him rattle off what she can only describe as a half-arsed plan to take out the two Templars in the lot below them.

"It'll be fun," he says again, voice just above a whisper and laced with childlike elation. "One target for you and one for me."

Lottie sighs. She gets to her feet, starts pacing the rooftop again, grumbles when Jacob pulls her down again, pointing at the snipers on the roof beside them.

"This isn't a good plan," she tells him. "You're not taking into account the civilians down there or the other Blighters. This is still gang territory, Mr Frye, and I don't know if you've noticed, but the streets here don't exactly have many of your _Rooks_ going about."

"You sound just like Evie," Jacob grumbles.

Lottie watches Clyde Striker below them, circling the kneeling civilians like a shark. He's built like a bull, all hard muscle and a hulking figure. Ada Striker is small and cruel and her smile is wicked sharp like the knife that hangs at her side.

Taking them out would be a step forward for the assassins, Lottie thinks, even if it's just a small one. But Jacob is only doing this because he's bored, because he wants to further the Rooks influence. Lottie's not sure she wants to help someone who's only killing people to further his _own_ influence.

Then again, she thinks, she's not exactly employee of the year either. At least Jacob is up front about his intentions whereas she hasn't even told Henry that she's not here to help them, only to kill Victor Lynch.

She sighs again.

"Okay," she says slowly. "How do we do this?"

Jacob claps her on the back and nearly sends her tumbling into the sniper patrolling the roof below them. She scowls at him, at the cheeky grin he's wearing, and Lottie realises that the prick was probably hoping that would happen.

Jacob grins. "Like this," he says, and he swan dives off the roof, into the gathered leaves below.

Lottie's eyes go wide like saucers and she stands, staring after Jacob, watching as he emerges from the leaves, drives his hidden blade into the throat of an unsuspecting Blighter passing by him.

There's a shout below her, the sniper spotting the commotion, and Lottie grinds her teeth, hops down to land on his shoulders, to drive her own hidden blade into his neck. She doesn't linger to see the life drain from his face, or the blood pool on the stone in front of him.

She follows Jacob's lead and takes to the air, diving into the leaves after him, forgetting how it feels to free fall, remembering how much she loved it as a child and finding it's all over far too soon for her liking.

Jacob has started an all-out brawl when she emerges, leaves stuck to her coat, her hair, blocking her eyes until she swipes them away. He's throwing punches, laughing heartily and Lottie barely has time to duck before there's a Blighter coming at her with a knife.

She hops back, meets his angry eyes and curled lip with narrowed eyes, hears the _snick_ as her blades pops free, raises her arm-

Jacob beats her to it, pounding the man's face with his fist, with the knuckle dusters Lottie can now see he's wearing and she's _furious_ that he's taken her fight away from her.

"Your target's getting away, love!" Jacob hollers, looking behind her, smirking, gesturing to the still body of Clyde Striker behind him, face down in the dirt.

Over Lottie's shoulder, Ada Striker is running, all pretence of fighting gone, fleeing for her life, knowing what comes. It's all new to Lottie, chasing a target, _killing_ a target, but Jacob has made it all into a game, one that she can't fathom losing.

Lottie can't imagine losing her target – her _first_ target – but she can imagine the smarmy smirk she'll receive from Jacob if she does.

Ada runs fast but that's okay because Lottie runs faster and she's tackled Ada before she's reached the mouth of the alley, before she can open her mouth to the Blighters standing there with their backs to them.

Ada Striker gurgles incomprehensively when Lottie buries her blade in her neck and Lottie's heart is pounding so loud in her ears. Adrenaline pumps through her veins and there's a grin spreading across her lips and blood spatter on her boots.

The Blighters in front of her shout, having noticed her, and she's on her feet and charging them in seconds. They're dead before they can draw their pistols, before they can open their mouths to threaten and insult her.

Lottie's left panting for breath, standing half crouched over her kills, and she doesn't realise Jacob has approached until she hears him clapping, until she looks up and sees him leaning against the alley wall, a half-smirk on his face and looking _oh so proud_ of himself. There's a bruise on his cheek and his lip is split.

Lottie stands straighter and meets his amused stare with a blank one of her own.

"Next time," she gasps, walking towards him, "let's discuss what we plan to do _before_ charging head first into a gang hotspot. Yes?"

Jacob doesn't even seem to consider her words.

Instead, he says wryly, "Next time?"

Lottie groans.

* * *

The adrenaline has worn off by the time they meet Henry and Evie at the entrance to Bell's home.

Henry looks the two of them up and down and while Lottie knows they have managed to collect themselves somewhat, nothing can hide the angry red mark on Jacob's cheek or his busted lip.

"What happened to you?" He asks them and Lottie looks away, tucks her hair behind her ear.

"Worried about me, Greenie?" Jacobs asks and he adds, with a fleeting touch to his heart, "I'm flattered."

Evie looks scornful, keen eyes scanning over the two of them and probably coming to the correct conclusion without even having to ask.

"That's just his face," she says and she ignores the derisive glower she receives in return.

"Lovely Lottie and I just eliminated two of your Templar targets for you, Greenie," Jacob says and Lottie doesn't miss the way Evie's eyes snap to her, standing beside Jacob, embarrassed and scuffing her boots in a puddle at her feet. "You're welcome."

Henry doesn't seem to know what to say but Evie is quick to start ripping into her brother, words flying fast from her tongue like the throwing knives strapped to her thigh. Lottie decides to remain quiet, unwilling to face Evie Frye's wrath like Jacob does and feeling as though she may have made the wrong choice in helping Jacob with those Templars.

"It doesn't matter," she hears Evie sigh. "Let's just meet Mr Green acquaintance and move on, yes?"

Lottie lifts her head and is all too eager to agree. Evie glowering at her like that, the way her eyes had honed in on her like prey, like a _target_ , had reminded her far too much of her mother, the way she'd act when Lottie was in trouble.

Lottie decides it's probably better to remain on Miss Frye's good side.

Jacob's arm comes around her shoulder again, in the same it way it had before, in the train. This time she doesn't bother shaking him off because it does nothing to discourage him.

Henry leads the way and the first thing Lottie hears are curses and shouts in a broad Scottish tongue. Jacob's arm slips from her shoulders and she takes up the rear, the last person to enter the room, half hidden behind Jacob's broad shoulders.  All she can hear are clicks and ticks from the machine on the table.

"Aleck," Henry says, "whatever is the matter?"

Aleck looks to the ceiling and sighs in frustration. He look hunched over on himself from Lottie's position, clutching a small leather bound notebook and a pen.

" _I_ have been intercepting nothing but _poppycock_ propaganda about Soothing Syrup and whatnot." His pen scratches against the paper of his journal as Henry steps closer to him. Evie and Jacob share a puzzled look between them as Aleck continues, angrily, voice rising in volume, "No, I swear to high heavens, if Starrick's monopoly _continues_ -"

Aleck is shaking with rage as Henry hesitantly draws his attention to the three of them, calmly stopping his tirade with the experience of a man who has had to do it on more than one occasion.

"Aleck," Henry starts slowly and Lottie steps out from behind Jacob as Aleck turns in his chair to look at them fully, to realise that Henry didn't arrive alone. "I beg your pardon, these are friends of mine; Evie Frye and her brother Jacob and Charlotte Crawley."

Aleck looks flustered, dropping his journal on the table, struggling to his feet. Lottie sees his left hand in a cast, ink stains all over the outside, and she smiles fondly as he stumbles over his words, stands in front of them with a nervous smile.

"Oh, _um_ , Alexander Graham Bell," he introduces.

"Linguist, inventor and technical expert," Henry finishes for him, smugly, as though he's trying to prove to them that Aleck is useful.

 _Well_ , Lottie thinks _, Henry doesn't need to prove anything to_ me _._

She glances Jacob's way, sees the bored expression on his face, the clenching of his fists. He wants to be anywhere but here, she realises, as Evie perks up, steps forward with a kind smile and an intrigued expression.

Henry walks closer to Aleck, hands raised, pleading, and he says, "Aleck, I have something of a favour to ask-"

"Can you fix this?" Jacob interrupts, lifting the hook-gun from his pocket, stepping in front of Henry with all the impatience of a five year old.

Evie looks disappointed and mildly annoyed, shaking her head and joining the huddle at Henry's other side. Lottie comes up last, like before, just in time for Aleck to finish giving the gun a once over.

She shadows him to his desk, where he's muttering to himself, wielding a screwdriver like a knife. He looks like he's struggling without the use of his left hand and Lottie's reaching for him before she realises, smiling gently, slowing his movements.

"Do you need any help at all?" she asks, one hand on the cast, meeting his dark eyes and not failing to notice the pink dusting his cheeks.

"Oh, erm, yes, ah-"

Aleck sets the gun in her palm, directs her in the right way to hold it. Lottie does as she's told, stays as still as possible while Aleck starts tinkering with it, starts taking it to pieces.

"I say, I could have used one of these to fit my fuses on top of Big Ben," he says distractedly and Lottie realises then what the device actually _is_.

 _A grappling hook_ , she thinks, and then, _of course it's a grappling hook_!

"Aleck is installing a new telegraph line for our Free Press Association," Henry supplies helpfully, and Lottie doesn't want to say what they're all thinking – that no one has heard of the Free Press Association.

"To combat the Starrick Telegraph Company," Aleck puts in, a touch angrily, and the screwdriver loses place and scratches the outer casing. He huffs, annoyed, but gets back to work, adding aloud, "Now if I can mend the fuses connecting independent lines from Big Ben, Starrick will be weakened. Only," Aleck waves his left hand at them, wiggles his fingers on the hand trapped in the cast, "we are somewhat at a handicap. _And_ there-"

Aleck grasps the hook from the gun, leaving Lottie standing with a mechanism she has no use for. Aleck murmurs a quick thank you for her help and motions for her to leave the scrap metal in her hands on the desk behind her. Lottie nods, backs away and leans against the desk, watching his movements closely, watching the way Jacob reaches forward, like a child at Christmas. His eyes are alight and there's an excited grin playing on his lips.

"Oh, ah, I've removed the mechanism so it may work with your bracer," Aleck explains, standing awkwardly before Jacob's broad form and he steps back as though burned when Jacob grabs it from him, tinkering with the hook and his bracer.

"I'll put it to use immediately," Jacob says with a carefree smile and a turn towards the door.

Lottie notices that it seems to calm Aleck somewhat because when he joins her near the desk he doesn't look nearly so fidgety or nervous. She decides not to pay him any more attention, because Jacob is leaving and she thinks it would be best for her to stay close to him rather than Evie.

Jacob's not quite as scary as his sister.

"Jacob, Charlotte, wait," Evie calls them and Lottie freezes only because Evie used her name.

She's stunned, wide eyed, but Jacob looks mildly annoyed, like this was something he was expecting and hoping to avoid.

"Mr Bell," Evie says, standing straighter, hands clasped behind her back. "Allow me to help you with your fuses."

Jacob looks about to object but Aleck is talking and Lottie finds that Scottish accents so charmingly, infuriatingly attractive that she wishes she'd made the offer before Evie, that she hadn't been so caught up in what Jacob was doing to not even think about it.

"You will not find me too proud to accept, Miss Frye," he says. "We can use my carriage. If you'd be so good as to hold the reins though."

He's taking off out the door before Lottie or Jacob can object and Evie's swiping the hook from her brother's hands on the way past, a haughtily said, "I'll take that," leaving her lips right before she disappears out the door after the inventor.

Jacob and Lottie groan at the same time.


	5. Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rift begins to form between Evie and Jacob.

"He's charming then, is he? This Jacob Frye."

"Infuriating more like."

Lottie's tinkering with her new rope launcher, recalling the days prior to receiving it. All she can seem to recall is Jacob's obnoxious laugh, his sarcastic smile as he raced ahead and left her behind – _again_ – rushing headfirst into danger.

The end result might have been catastrophic, she likes to think, if not for her presence, cleaning up the messes he left behind him. She wonders if this is how Evie feels every day of her life, how she would feel if she wasn't scouring London for the Piece of Eden.

Millie is smiling fondly, wringing out a washcloth in the sink. Lottie thinks it's the same one she'd seen the woman dab her eyes with last week, when Lottie left for the first time to seek out the assassins.

"What?" Lottie says, curious, frowning, dropping her arm to give her friend her full attention.

Millie smiles. "Nothing. Your mother used to say the same thing about your father, y'know."

Lottie can't see the resemblance. Her father liked to call himself a recluse – though he was far from it – and he rarely left the house save for business meetings and compulsory dinners with associates. She can't see her father being a reckless young man – _assassin_ – vying for her mother's affections.

He preached care in his lessons, _planning_ , knowing the enemy's next two steps before they do.

Lottie scoffs cynically, "Of course she did."

Millie's laugh is nonchalant and carefree and everything Lottie hasn't heard from the woman in so long. Outside she hears children shouting and laughing, chasing after one another, having _fun_. It makes her nostalgic for a childhood she never had; cooped up in her home, studiously reading her books, practicing her fighting techniques to please her father.

Her face is blank, showing nothing of the thoughts tumbling through her mind, when Millie takes the seat across from her. Her friend looks serious all of a sudden, aged face looking more haggard and weary.

"So it's true then?" she asks suddenly and she's pulling on the loose threads in the washcloth. It looks more threadbare than it did the last time Lottie was here.

Lottie cocks her head to the side. "What?"

"The Blighters," Millie elaborates in a hushed tone. She looks over her shoulder at the door, as though she's afraid she might be overheard. At Lottie's still blank look, she adds, "Have they really been forced from Whitechapel?"

Lottie nods slowly after a moment.

"I've seen Jacob work," she says. "I've met a couple of the Rooks themselves. Seems like Kaylock didn't stand a chance going against the Frye's."

"Do you think they'll come here?"

Lottie shrugs. "Certainly seems like that's the plan. Why? What's got you thinking about all this?"

"Oh," Millie sighs. There's a rip in the washcloth that Millie's pressing at. She says, "I had a fella come to the door couple of nights back."

Lottie sits up in her chair, elbows on the table and if her father could see her now, she thinks, adapting what she knows was his business pose. All those days spent lingering at his door, eavesdropping on his conversations, peeking through the gap between the door and the doorframe has finally paid off it seems.

"He offered me money, Lottie," Millie says quickly, fearfully. "A _lot_ of money."

"For what?"

"The _children_."

Lottie's breath leaves her in a rush and she leans back in her chair, running her hands through her hair. She's left it down today, falling in waves from the braids she'd wore yesterday. It falls in her eyes when she leans forward, elbows on the table again, meeting Millie's anxious eyes with a stern, fretful one of her own.

"You didn't accept I take it?"

Millie shakes her head. "I chased him off with a broom."

Lottie nods but can't find it in herself to smile in relief.

Millie says, "He wanted the children for child labour. The factory by the waterfront. Just last week I was hearing stories, Lottie, about children in that damnable place – dropping like flies because of exhaustion!"

"He'll be back then," Lottie surmises.

Millie's chair scrapes against the floor as she gets to her feet, throwing the washcloth at the table. It lands in front of Lottie, wrung up tightly, loose threads sticking out all over the fabric.

"He's not getting my children," she says fiercely, eyes alight with fire and determination.

"No, he's not," Lottie agrees. "We'll make sure of that."

"We?"

"I'm not going to let you deal with this _alone_ , Millie. If he comes back, send someone to find me. I'll be here before you can even get your broom from the cupboard."

* * *

Lottie can hear the raised voices before she even steps foot on the train.

She passes a finely dressed man on her way in and he tips his hat to her, murmurs, "After you, miss," and hops off the train like he belonged there the whole time. She watches him in the crowded station for a few seconds afterwards, watches him mingle in the crowd before he disappears from her sight.

 _Huh_ , she thinks idly, turning away. _Must be a new associate_.

"- _only then become the dancer_?"

"Oh, I see, so you're taking over where _father_ left off?"

" _Some_ one has to."

 _They're at it again_ , she thinks next, stepping into the car, taking in the sight before her.

Jacob and Evie are in each other's faces, glaring, looking every bit like they're ready to throw punches. Jacob's jaw is locked and tense and Lottie thinks he's grinding his teeth together, never flinching under his sister's heated stare. Evie matches her brother in height, might even be taller when they're squaring off like this, and she's just as unflinching as her brother, feels just as right.

Lottie doesn't need to ask to know what the subject of their debate is.

This isn't the first argument they've had about their plans in London and Lottie's sure it won't be their last. Their relationship makes her relieved that she's an only child. She can't imagine knowing someone so well that all they do whenever they're in the same room is argue.

Henry is bustling back and forth between a desk and the wall beside it, pinning up portraits and posters, all of them connected with red thread. The threads all lead to the portrait of Crawford Starrick in the centre of the wall. At the bottom left, two portraits have large red crosses through them and Lottie doesn't need to ask to know what that represents.

He spares her a glance in passing, rolls his eyes in exasperation at the twins arguing. Lottie shrugs her shoulders, leans against the doorframe in what Jacob has now taken to affectionately calling her 'spot'. Over Evie's shoulder she sees Agnes, peeking round the corner, watching the twins with curious eyes.

"Evie," Henry dares to interrupt, drawing the eyes of the twins. Jacob doesn't even turn around. "Finding the precursor artefact will give us an insight into what the Templars intend. Jacob, I have information about Starrick's associates that should be of use to you."

Lottie pushes off the doorframe, intrigued, and walks further into the car, eyes trained only on the portraits. Her eyes are drawn to an advertisement for **Starrick's Soothing Syrup** and the poster is modest but noticeable, bearing the insignia of a fox in its centre.

Jacob still doesn't turn around, not until Henry urges him with a quiet, "Here."

Lottie's holding the page in her thumb and forefinger, studying it, wondering what its significance is. She feels Jacob's presence at her back, looking over her shoulder, feels his hot breath on her neck. Whatever it is seems harmless enough, she thinks, but its bearing Starrick's name so it must be anything but.

"Starrick's Soothing Syrup," Jacob says roughly and for a moment Lottie thinks he's talking to her and only her, that there's no one else in the car with them. "Let's investigate, shall we?"

"What makes you think Charlotte wants to go with you?" Evie demands from the desk. She's rummaging through papers there but she looks over her shoulder to Jacob and Lottie. Jacob steps away from Lottie, throwing his hands out in frustration, turning away from them all. "Maybe she'd rather spend her time doing something worthwhile."

Lottie can't help but see the irony in that and also feel the guilt.

Evie thinks – hopes – Lottie is there to do something _worthwhile_ , to help her find the Piece of Eden and liberate London.

Jacob wants to kills the Templars and wrestle control away from the Blighters, to end their tyranny in the quickest and only way he knows how.

Lottie just wants to kill one man, one cog in the machine, one _monster_.

"Let's ask Lottie, yes?"

Lottie blinks, realises that there are three pairs of eyes trained on her face now, watching her, expecting an answer that she's not one hundred percent sure she can give. She looks between them, at Jacob's eager expression, his clenched fists that are just aching to start a fight, and at Evie's keen eyes, watching her more closely than everyone else, seeming to know her decision before she even does.

Jacob's goal, after all, _is_ closer to her own.

"I think I'd rather chase up this Soothing Syrup," she says calmly. To Evie, she adds placating, "Keep me informed on the search for the Piece of Eden though, won't you?"

Evie nods but she doesn't look pleased. "Of course."

Jacob claps his hands. "Perfect. Greenie, where do we start?"

"This _Soothing Syrup_ has become the only medicine available in Lambeth," Henry explains, pointing to the poster, looking between Lottie and Jacob with earnest eyes. "It bears the Templar Grandmaster's name."

"About time for a visit to the doctor," Jacob muses aloud and folds his arms across his chest, leans back cockily with a sure-fire smile.

Lottie can't help it; she matches his grin with a cool smirk of her own.

And then Evie bursts their bubble.

"I don't see that cure arriving any time soon," she deadpans from behind them and she doesn't even turn around to look at them.

Jacob glowers at her, snaps, "And what exactly will _you_ be doing, might I ask?"

He looks very much like he doesn't want to ask, like he doesn't even care. But Lottie feigns interest, if only to try and keep herself on good terms with the other Frye, just in case she needs Evie's help somewhere down the line.

"You know very well," is Evie's quick retort and she still won't look at them. Lottie finds herself fidgeting with the sleeve of her jacket, worrying that things are going to escalate between the two Frye's once more. "Tracking down the Piece of Eden."

Jacob turns on his heel and Lottie watches him go, watches him stop at the door. He calls over his shoulder, "Enjoy your _studies_. I'll be out killing Templars."

He doesn't leave the car, instead hopping over to the adjoining one. Lottie hears the shouts of the Rooks there, hears the greeting thrown their boss's way, the cries of, "have a drink, boss!" that float through to them minutes after.

"We're not starting now then," Lottie mutters, shoulder's slumping.

"Jacob does things at his pace and no one else's," Evie scoffs, "even when it might benefit him to change his ways."

She brushes her cape over her shoulder as she _finally_ turns to look at her. Lottie realises she'd done nothing wrong, that Evie just didn't want to look at her brother.

"My offer _is_ still open, if you'd rather _actually_ make a difference," she snidely remarks next, and Lottie doesn't like the way Evie is looking at her.

She feels like Evie is seeing right through her, trying to understand her when Lottie can barely understand herself sometimes. She wonders if Evie suspects her intentions, if she knows more than she's letting on. It wouldn't surprise her if Evie had looked into her, had researched her background, her _father_ , knew more about Lottie's arrival to their train than she was telling anyone.

 _Yes_ , Lottie thinks, _it is far better to have Evie Frye as an ally than an enemy._

She just wishes Jacob would see it that way too.


	6. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie begins to wonder who to tell about her plan - Jacob or Evie?

Lottie is plagued by nightmares.

They stalk her like demons, cropping up in the sweetest of dreams, drawing themselves up from the shadows. She wakes in a cold sweat, grasping at the sheets with fingers like claws and her heart thundering in her ears. Her chest heaves and each breath is a gasping inhale that shakes her to the core.

 _Only a dream_ , she thinks, her racing heart calming, her hands unclenching from the sheets. She draws her knees to her chest, exhales shakily on bare skin. _Only a dream_.

They won't end, this she knows, not until she kills Lynch, until she sees the life fade away from his eyes herself. Only then will she be safe, only then will her father be avenged, only then will she be able to continue with her life.

 _I have to kill him_ , she thinks and she's running her hands through her hair, exhaling softly and shakily, throat clogged up with the threat of oncoming tears. _I have to. Only then will this end_.

When she lies down to sleep again, it won't come, and she knows the day ahead will be long. Waiting at the end will be a cold bed and nightmares waiting to entrap her.

Jacob is cheery the next morning and he tosses her a slice of toast when she enters the train car.

There are Rooks all around her, lounging in the booths, heads on tables, some groaning when others speak too loudly.

She takes a slow bite but it tastes like dust in her mouth and she's lost her appetite.

"Well, some _one_ didn't get a lot of sleep last night," Jacob says, eying her up and down. "Were we too loud? Did you wish to join us?"

His gaze lingers on her face and Lottie holds his gaze, wonders if there are black circles under her eyes and if they're noticeable.

In truth, Lottie hadn't even heard the noise from the dining car, had completely forgotten that Jacob had gone off to drink with his Rooks. She's not even sure what time her nightmare had woken her at, or if they were still drinking and laughing and _toasting_ their boss then.

"No," she replies, wiping crumbs from her lips. "Not at all."

She drops the toast on the empty plate in front of her, eyes the dozens of empty bottles lining the bar Jacob sits at. She wonders how early it is and if drinking is the best way to deal with her nightmare problem. Maybe if she just doesn't sleep, she'll never have to face them again, not until she faces the real deal and drives her blade into his throat.

Jacob doesn't look convinced and Lottie decides to leave him be, to let him think what he wishes about her sleeping schedule. She doubts if Jacob's is much better, with the way he stays up with his Rooks every other night, the way he drinks himself silly with them.

"Where do we start then?" she asks him, leaning against the bar, knocking over a glass bottle with her elbow.

" _We_ ," Jacob tells her, "are not starting anywhere until you get a new weapon."

She's offended and by the amused smirk playing at Jacob's lips, she's sure it shows on her face. He's being absurd, her hidden blade does the job just fine, thank you very much.

She tells him so and flushes at his boisterous, disbelieving laugh.

"That old thing?" He says, gesturing to the hidden blade on her arm. "Please."

"It's gotten me this far," she tells him, a tad defensively.

Lottie doesn't want to say what she's thinking, that it's one of the only things she has left of her father, that she wouldn't part with it even if her life depended on it.

Jacob looks like he wants to press some more and Lottie knows she'll crack if he keeps pushing, that she'll tell him exactly what he wants to hear just to get him to stop talking.

She asks quickly, before Jacob can utter a word, "What weapon do you think I need?"

He's smirking again, sliding from the bar stool he's perched on. He's holding both hands up, like he wants her to slow down, and his eyes are twinkling with mischief that Lottie's come to associate with him.

"Close your eyes," he sing-songs and he's reaching behind him for something Lottie can't see

"No," Lottie deadpans.

"Don't you trust me?"

"No."

Jacob's hurt look tugs at her heartstrings, almost makes her regret her words. But she doesn't, not in the slightest. He might be attractive and lovely and she might feel a pull towards him but that doesn't change how she feels. He may be a fellow assassin but she hasn't known him two weeks and his actions have given her no reason to trust him – not yet, anyway.

She has no doubt in her mind that if it came down to Jacob and herself, he'd probably choose to save himself.

"Fine," Jacob says.

He reaches behind him and pulls out a knife. The metal of the curved blade catches the light in the dining car, and Lottie's eyes are wide as she takes the weapon from him.

It's unlike anything she's ever seen before, held before, wielded before. She's swinging it before she knows where she's at, revelling in the lightness of it, the silence of the blade, imagining what it will be like to strike down an enemy with it, to strike down _Lynch_ with it.

The hilt is polished ivory and there's a wolf's head engraved on the top. Its eyes are painted black and the paint is everywhere, like veins, streaming down to the blade like a pool of blood.

It's a Kukri blade, she thinks, turning it this way and that, getting different views, checking its weight and testing her reach with it. Her father had one just like it, above their fireplace in a case she was never allowed to touch.

Her breath mists the blade as she studies it.

"Where did you get this?" she breathes and her eyes flicker up to meet Jacob's piercing gaze.

He's studying her closely when he says, "Stole it from Greenie's curio shop."

Her alarmed gaze must say it all because Jacob's laughing in her face, clutching his stomach like it's the funniest thing to happen to him in a long time.

"I'm joking," he tells her seriously but his smile is still on his lips and he's still chuckling and she's not really sure if he is or not. "Greenie asked me to give it to you."

His explanation doesn't relieve her in the slightest. She feels like the gift is an invitation to stay longer, to stay with them and forget her main objective.

It can't be, not really, because there's no way Henry knows what her plans are, no way he knows her ulterior motives. She hasn't told anyone, hasn't mentioned it to _anyone_ and she's been so careful.

 _It doesn't matter_ , she thinks suddenly, shaking her head. _What they think doesn't matter_.

"We need to find a merchant," Jacob says suddenly, drawing her attention. "If we can find a distributor on the street, we can find out where the syrup is distilled."

"And cut off the supply," Lottie supplies with a nod.

"We're going to do more than that," is Jacob's cryptic reply.

He saunters past her, towards the gap in the train cars and Lottie knows he's about to jump, with or without her. It's time to go, if she's ready or not.

She hides a yawn behind her hand because she's very much _not_ ready, not ready now even though she was ready to start last night, ready and raring to go but _he_ wasn't.

Lottie's very much regretting deciding to help Jacob now and she's sure communication and planning would be a lot more open with Evie. She hates following along after Jacob like a trained dog and she's really beginning to hate how closed off he is, how unpredictable his actions are.

He's far too good at improvising, she thinks bitterly, far too good at thinking on his feet in situations that would be better planned out beforehand. She's tried things his way, back when they took down Ada and Clyde Striker and she's still not sure if she likes it.

He doesn't have tact, not in the way Lottie imagines Evie does, and he has about as much grace as a bull in a china shop. Situations that requite delicacy go over his head, she's noted, and he'd much rather have a drink with the _lads_ than help his sister find an artefact that could win them the war.

Lottie's sheathes her new weapon and freezes with her hand on her belt.

 _I sound just like my father_ , she's astounded to realise, and the thought terrifies her more than she likes to admit. Lottie loved her father but she doesn't want to be his doppelganger and thinking the way she is doesn't make her feel any better about his death. If she did think that way, maybe he would never have died in the first place. If she had thought like him before, maybe she could have joined the war sooner.

Maybe she could have saved him herself.

Jacob's lingering at the door; hand on the frame, looking over his shoulder at her curiously. Lottie realises she's still standing with her hand on her hip, lingering over her new Kukri blade, wide eyed and still reeling from the thought that she might be turning into her father.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Jacob comments bemusedly, turning to face her fully.

Lottie shakes her head, brushes loose strands of her hair from her eyes. She will not be her father, she tells herself determinedly, she will _not_.

"I'm fine," she tells him. "Let's get started."

* * *

The merchant they locate is being harassed by a young woman, shouting and screaming over his attempts to sell.

He's dark haired and furious, wearing a top hat and an apron Lottie thinks started off white but is now grey and covered in questionable substances. He's lifting a hand to hit the woman when the two of them step in and Lottie's looking to the man sitting limply on a crate across from them, his expression completely blank, sitting with slumped shoulders and a slack mouth.

He looks ill and not all there.

Lottie recalls what the woman had been saying not two minutes ago, what she'd been screaming over the merchant; _it's all he drinks_!

The Syrup, Lottie thinks, dismayed. He's drank so much it's turned him into a vegetable.

The merchant pulls a knife on Jacob, small and nothing to worry about. Jacob slaps it away exactly like that; nothing, a bug bothering him.

Jacob smirks over his shoulder at her, cockily, and Lottie returns the smirk and a roll of the eyes because he's not paying attention and the merchant is running from him, scrambling to escape the tall and imposing man disturbing his sales.

Jacob mutters, " _Shit_ ," under his breath, says languidly to the angry woman, "If you'll excuse me, madam," and then he's taking off after him.

"You'll be okay, won't you?" Lottie asks the woman, hand gently grazing her elbow, drawing her attention. Her gaze darts back to her husband on the crate and he's drooling, looking every bit like a child instead of the man Lottie knows he's supposed to be.

The woman nods slowly but Lottie isn't convinced.

"Just... whatever it is you're doing, miss," the woman says. "Stop them."

"We will," Lottie tells her, smiling comfortingly. "You have my word."

"Lottie!" she hears Jacob shout and he sounds so far away. "Cut him off!"

"Excuse me," she tells the woman with a soft smile and nod. She draws her hood up over her head and gives chase, running in the opposite direction to Jacob.

She'll never get used to the feeling of the rope launcher, never get used to the feeling of ascending so quickly after using her hands and feet for so long. She's alert, watching the people below with eyes like a hawk, watching for the smallest disturbance in the crowd, the emergence of the merchant.

When it happens, she's grappling across rooftops, feeling like it's a competition to get to him before Jacob. She's noticed that everything becomes a competition around Jacob, everything becomes a race. If her father were here, watching her grinning like a madman, watching her time her actions just _perfectly_ to land in front of the merchant, to cut him off like Jacob wanted, she's not sure if he would be proud of her or angry for being so easily swayed into reckless behaviour.

Jacob's chest is heaving when he comes round the corner but he's not panting and his face gives nothing away to how out of breath Lottie imagines he probably is.

The merchant looks between the two of them, caged in and acting like a frightened rabbit, and Jacob stands to his full height, tall and imposing like before and the merchant cowers. His top hat is on the ground at her feet.

"Tell me where the syrup originates," Jacob demands, voice rough and uncompromising, and a shiver runs down Lottie's spine.

"A-All I know is they make a run each day," the merchant stammers quickly, "between the gasometers and the asylum."

"Thank you," Jacob says but he doesn't sound at all grateful.

The merchant flees, leaving behind his hat, and Lottie stoops to pick it up. She hands it to Jacob when he gestures for it but she's frowning at the ground at her feet, scuffing her boots against the cobblestones of the road. Jacob swaps his flat cap for the top hat and he holds his hands out to his sides as though waiting for applause.

"What do you think?"

He looks dashing, more handsome than Lottie thinks is possible. With the right outfit, Lottie thinks Jacob could look intimidating without having to even try. Jacob could look like the gang leader he is, could look the part of a London assassin as well.

 _Hide in plain sight_ , she thinks and she bares her teeth in a smile.

But, because it's Jacob, she says, "No."

"You sound just like _Evie_ ," Jacob grumbles under his breath, swiping the hat from his head, tossing it to the ground with a glower. It lands in a puddle, rolls to a stop at Lottie's feet.

"The asylum," she mutters and she looks up, meets Jacob's eyes as he replaces his flat cap on his head. "Why the asylum?"

"Maybe the loonies are behind distribution," Jacob jokes with a wry smile.

When Lottie doesn't respond positively, doing nothing but shooting him an unimpressed scowl and pursing her lips, he shrugs.

"Alright," he surrenders, palms out to her. "Let's find a distributor, yes?"

"And follow the trail back to their boss," Lottie agrees. "Maybe he can tell us why they're making runs to the asylum."

"Exactly."

Lottie hates that Jacob is a lot smarter than she gives him credit for, hates that even though he's giving her the impression of unpredictability and reckless abandon, he actually seems to be the one in control of their whole mission. While they may have gone out into London in search of a lead and with little evidence to what they're searching for, Jacob seems to have pieced together a plan quite nicely off the top of his head.

She hates that she doesn't hate him for it and she wonders if maybe she is better suited to Jacob's plans – or _not_ plans, as she's finding – than she first thought.

Lottie can't imagine scouring books for hours into the night like Evie does, searching for a just a _smidgen_ of a clue about the Piece of Eden, or performing _days_ of reconnaissance like her father always taught her, memorising the targets movements perfectly before making the kill.

Jacob begins when he chooses, thinks of his toes and still manages to pull off the mission – while Evie can pull them off without a hitch in her perfect plans, Jacob _expects_ hitches and deals with them.

While it's not what she's been taught, she can admire the skill in it, and she's not sure if she could ever actually pull it off on her own.

It makes her think about Victor Lynch, about the best approach to killing him when the time comes for her to do the deed. It makes her wonder if planning every step of the mission with Evie's help would be the right way to go, or if Jacob tagging along with her and guiding her through it would be better.

Would it be better to tell Evie or Jacob about her plan?

Jacob leads the way to the market place and to the next step of their mission and there's a carefree smile on his face and a glint of madness in his eyes that promises trouble for her but Lottie can't stop her thoughts from wandering. What would the twins think of her plan, of her quest for vengeance for her father? What would Henry think? Would they tell her to let it go? Doubts are creeping into her mind unwanted, tiny demons clinging to her action, every word.

Should she tell them at all?


	7. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob decides to take a gang stronghold and Evie gives Lottie some advice.

The distribution boss runs a fight club at the foundry and Lottie hates him for it.

She doesn't mind the fight club - not at all - doesn't mind the loud shouts that echo around the factory or the woman to her left elbowing her constantly and getting carried away in the fight. What she _does_ mind is Jacob to her right, leaning over the barrier so much that she thinks he might join the fight any minute now.

Behind her, coming down the stairs with his eyes fixed firmly on the two men brawling in the centre of the ring, is their target, the distribution boss. She's the only one paying attention, she thinks, and it's a wonder Jacob gets anything done with how carefree he is.

"Get 'im!" Jacob hollers beside her, so close to her ear she thinks for a moment that he's talking to her in regards to their target. But he's not; his gaze is still fixed firmly on the ring. "Come _on_ , you call that a punch? I know children who can hit harder than _that_!"

He's going to get thumped, she thinks, and whoever decides they've had enough of him might have to fight her for the first punch.

She elbows him in the side, ignore the annoyed look he sends her way.

"He's coming this way," she mutters, out the corner of her mouth.

Jacob looks disgruntled at the distraction, at being drawn away from the fight, but he turns slowly and leans against the wooden barriers behind them. He watches their target saunter towards them, pose languid and a lazy smirk on his lips, eyes dark and dangerous underneath the cap he wears. Lottie hates how attractive it makes him look. She hates that she told him that top hat didn't suit him because it's now deprived her of the image of Jacob wearing that _smirk_ while wearing the _hat_.

Jacob's suddenly turned to look at her, so quickly that Lottie feels a blush creeping up her neck, spreading along her cheeks. But he's not looking at her; he's looking over her shoulder, at the Blighter across from them who's watching them with a suspicious glare.

"Take care of that, won't you?" Jacob says lowly and his eyes trail along her face, along the heated skin of her cheeks. "Feelin' alright, love?"

Lottie wants to groan.

"I'm fine," she says waspishly, "just find out where the syrup comes from."

She turns on her heel, picks her way through the unruly crowd around her, watching the Blighter eyeing Jacob all the while. She reaches him just when he looks like he's going to make his move, brushes her fingertips along the bare skin of his forearm.

She bats her eyelashes at him, tries to recall how she spoke to that almost-suiter that one time. What was his name? Jonah?

And when he opens his mouth to speak, his eyes lidden and mouth parted _oh so slightly_ , she jabs her hidden blade into his gut.

She giggles lightly, catches him as he crumbles against her, acts nonchalant when she finally can't stand his weight anymore, when he drops heavily to the ground at her feet. She shrugs at onlookers, thinks that Jacob is rubbing off on her too much – what would her _father_ think, just killing someone like that willy-nilly, no plan, no _nothing_? – and the smile on her face is forced, fake.

"A little too much to drink," she supplies with a sweet smile.

He's on his front, face down, and they won't see the blood until she's already gone.

Lottie's lost sight of Jacob and she's resisting the urge to draw up her hood because that will only draw attention to her – when she's out, in the open air, _away_ from here –

They meet at the stairs, Jacob with their target at his side, arm wrenched behind his back and Jacob is looking _so_ diplomatic, so relaxed and he smiles when he sees her. The man at Jacob's side is grimacing, features pulled into a pained expression and Lottie briefly entertains the thought of asking about Victor Lynch, of throwing caution to the wind and starting her hunt _now_.

But the sun hits Jacob's face and he's grinning over his shoulder at her, eyes hidden in the shadow of that ridiculous cap and the thought drifts away.

 _Soon_ , she tells herself. _Soon. I'll finish this first_.

Jacob shoves the man away from him and Lottie watches him stumble and struggle to remain upright. Her fellow assassin's grin is dark and daring now and his eyes have narrowed, meeting the man's perplexed and somewhat frightened gaze with a leer.

His voice is a hiss, low, mindful of civilians around them but aware that they can't allow the man to think they're anything less than _threatening_.

"Where is the syrup made?" he demands, stepping forward into their target's face, towering over him. "Speak _now_ or for _ever_ hold your-"

"The distillery," is the panicked reply, "it's the large building beside the brewery!"

"Go," Lottie spits at him cheerlessly and he wastes no time, scrambling from their sight and kicking up dirt under his slipping feet.

She draws her hood up once more. "To the distillery then?"

Jacob sucks air in between his teeth, leans back on his heels and looks at the sky. It's getting grey, Lottie notes dismally, already thinking ahead to later, when they're done and she'll have to dry out her clothes and curl up under the thin blankets of her bed.

"Later," Jacob says and he's already taking off down the road, whistling tunelessly.

"What?"

Lottie follows, stomping after him, hating the swagger in his step, the arrogance of his manner. He's still whistling but there seems to be some semblance of a tune now – though she's not sure what it is.

"Ever heard of Echostreet Alley?" he asks suddenly, barely glancing at her.

"No, Mr Frye," Lottie says shortly, "I haven't. But shouldn't we-"

"Later," he cuts in again. "It's a Blighter stronghold. Some of my Rooks tried to take it for me but got caught. We're going to help them."

"But-"

"Later. We can stop Soothing Syrup production tomorrow. I'm sure London can wait a _day_ , Lottie. Be _sides_ a stronger Rook presence in Lambeth will provide us with extra back up should we require it."

"The whole point of being an assassin is to hide-"

"-In plain sight, yes, yes. Just how much _time_ have you spent with Evie?"

She shoots him a dry look and she's slowly realising why Evie gets so frustrated with her brother all the time. Lottie runs a hand through her hair, glances at the grey clouds fast approaching. The weather is so changeable, she thinks, and if the stronghold is on the way to the train _any_ way –

"You want to take the stronghold?"

"No, Lottie, I want to sit down and have _tea_ with them," he deadpans.

Lottie drops her hands back to her sides, unimpressed with his remark and sure this shows on her face.

Jacob's throws his hands out, clearly bothered by her hesitation, and says, desperately, "Come _on_ , Lottie!"

And damn it _all_ but she can't help it. He wants her to help him and she's never had someone want her for anything. She feels special, _important_ , and her stomach is churning with nerves and anticipation and _excitement_.

Taking down Ada and Clyde Striker had been an experience Lottie's been both dreading and looking forward to repeating. Working with Jacob is exciting and quick and _breath-taking_ and the thought of doing it again sends shivers down her spine, sets her heart skipping a beat.

And, she has to admit, his argument is compelling. A stronger Rook presence in Lambeth would aid them should they need it.

"Tomorrow?" she probes gently, unsurely.

In the back of her mind she can hear a voice, disapproving, angry – _this is not the mission! You know better than this –_ and she can't decide if it's her father or Evie because they're both beginning to sound so alike.

Jacob nods, hands out at his sides, so _inviting_.

Lottie swallows her nerves and draws up her hood once more.

* * *

Lottie winces, flinches away from Millie's touch.

The other woman is fussing, dabbing at Lottie's forehead with _that cloth_ , and her lips are pursed, brows pulled tightly together. She hasn't said a word since Lottie appeared at her door, bloodied and exhilarated, not since Lottie stumbled after her and all but _fell_ into the rickety wooden chair she's slumped on now.

" _In_ furiating," Millie mumbles and Lottie's not sure who she's talking about; her or Jacob? "What in the _world_ -"

"I'm just as to blame, Millie," Lottie mutters. "Frye had no way of knowing-"

She winces again at the dab of the cloth on the darkened skin of her forehead. The dampness of the fabric is doing nothing to soothe the ache.

"If he's going to- to- to _invite_ you to liberate London with him, the _least_ he can do is watch out for you!"

"It's not his job to watch out for me, Millie," Lottie says. "And I can look after myself."

Millie's touch turns as hard as her stare. Lottie mutters, "ow," under her breath and shoots her an annoyed glare.

"Can you?" Millie dares.

"Of course I can. I was trained by the best."

Lottie's lucky she got out with just this bruise on her forehead; things could have taken a massive turn for the _worse_ if she and Jacob weren't trained assassins.

Lightning flashes outside and thunder follows, rumbling through the sky. The storm had started only minutes after she and Jacob had liberated the Blighter stronghold, freeing their captives and burning the plans they had found there. Jacob hadn't let her look at them and he'd swept them from the table and set them alight before she could try.

Lottie turns her face to the window, watches the rain batter the glass pane, watches the drops race each other to the bottom. She's reminded painfully of the week prior, almost to the day, when she'd been running in weather that wild, crying and dirty, running from enemies who wanted her dead.

She wonders what things would be like if she was still at home, if her father had never been murdered, if she'd never been forced down that tunnel by Sarah. Is the woman still alive, even? Are Noah and John? Would she still be eavesdropping on her father's conversations? Would he still be lying to her about where he was going every week for his _business_ _meetings_?

Lottie tears her gaze away and starts to get to her feet. Millie steps back, still fussing, still trying to dab at her forehead but Lottie's taller and she lightly swatting her hands away.

"Stop _fussing_ , Millie, I'm fine," she murmurs. The _I've dealt with worse_ goes unsaid.

There's a shout from upstairs, followed by another and then a loud thump. A little girl starts crying after another rumble of thunder.

Lottie recalls her conversation with Millie from before, the man pressing money into the woman's hands, the woman throwing it back in his face and chasing him away with a broom.

"How are things?"

Millie sighs, "As good as they can be. I'm doin' my best."

Lottie doesn't press and she follows Millie from the kitchen. They part ways at the door, quick hugs and pecks on the cheek and promises for Lottie to come round again soon, when she has the chance.

Lottie can feel eyes on her as she shuts the door behind her. She draws her hood up against the cold rain and the bitter wind and walks quickly from the orphanage, watching the streets, searching for anything out of the ordinary and finding nothing.

* * *

Evie is fixated on scattered papers on a desk when Lottie sneaks in, intent on retreating to her room and trying to rest, even if it might be a restless one. Further along the train, she can hear the noise from the dining car, cheers and laughs, and Jacob's voice rising about them all.

She thinks Evie's not going to say anything, thinks she's gotten away with it and the Frye woman is just too focussed on her work.

And then, Evie says, "What did Jacob drag you into this time?"

Lottie freezes mid step, hands hovering by her hood, in the middle of taking it off. Evie is looking at her now, those birdlike eyes now fixed closely on her. Lottie's not getting away with this one, she realises, so she draws down her hood and tries to act as nonchalant as possible when she turns to greet Evie.

"Evening, Miss Frye," she says politely and pointedly ignores the sharp intake of breath and the way Evie storms to her feet. "Have you made any progress in your hunt for the Piece of Eden?"

"Don't try to distract me," Evie says. She reaches for a cloth from a nearby table and hands it to Lottie. "What happened?"

Lottie wrings the cloth in her hands, wonders if the bruise really is as bad as it looks. It certainly doesn't _feel_ that bad. Jacob hadn't mentioned anything about it to her and she hadn't really known there was anything out of the ordinary until she'd reached Millie's, until the woman was fussing and muttering and setting her in a kitchen chair.

"It was Jacob, wasn't it?" Evie continues, lips pursed, brows creased. Her eyes dart angrily to the dining car, where the noise levels have escalated, where Lottie can hear Jacob's boisterous laugh echoing through the quiet space they're in. "No wonder he looked so happy and _smug_ when he got back here. He talked you into one of his ridiculous schemes and-"

"Miss Frye, please, it's not like that," Lottie cuts in.

She doesn't feel right about letting Evie go off on a tangent about her brother, about pinning the blame on the man when Lottie didn't exactly do her best to encourage Jacob to pursue the lead they had on the Soothing Syrup. She could have done a little more to direct the situation in a direction both her father and Evie would have been proud of.

But she didn't and now all she has to show for it is a bruise the size of a fist on her forehead.

"We found a lead on the Soothing Syrup," she says quietly, "but Jacob didn't want to pursue it immediately."

"Of course he didn't," Evie sighs and she sounds like none of it is a surprise. "He was probably tired of doing something responsible for once."

"Some of the Rooks were caught trying to take Echostreet Alley-"

"The gang. Of course. It always comes back to his _bloody_ gang. No deviations from the mission, that's what father _always_ told us but he _never listens_."

They're words that Lottie recognises from her own father's teachings, muttered under Evie's breath and said in a biting tone. Lottie's not sure what to say to that, not sure if she should be saying anything really. Evie seems to have reached a whole other plain of life now, griping under her breath about her brother and leaning against the desk with the papers on it.

Eventually Evie sighs, long and low and tired. She meets Lottie's eyes, smiles softly, comfortingly.

"You don't have to follow him blindly, you know," she says. "You could just come back to the train when he's stupid like this."

"I know," Lottie replies. "I didn't want him to go alone."

"He can look after himself," Evie says. "All Jacob wants is good fight, damn the consequences."

"I'm beginning to see that."

Lottie's beginning to see a pattern in the way people react to Jacob Frye's antics; frustration, anger, perplexity. She understands these reactions but also wonders if they're the fuel to Jacob's fire, the reason he does the things he does; spite.

"Just remember what I said," Evie says, drawing Lottie's eyes again. "Don't risk your life unnecessarily because _he_ wants a fight."

Evie and Lottie part ways – Evie back to her desk and scattered papers and Lottie to her train car, to her bed, to her restless sleep and demons. Lottie wishes there was some way she could linger in with Evie, maybe even help a little, anything to stop her trying to sleep, anything to stop her facing the demons she can't fight.

But she doesn't want to weigh her down by having her explain all of her findings to her just so Lottie can help. Evie would probably get through everything much faster without Lottie _trying_ to help.

Her car is cold and dark and she sets about lighting the gaslights with slow and sluggish movements, the events of the day catching up to her. She realises just how tired she is when she sits in the plush armchair by the door, still weighed down by her jacket and her armour, laying her head back gently.

When she closes her eyes she sees nothing but darkness, blissful and damning.


	8. Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie makes some friends, and Henry and Evie intervene.

She wakes with a strangled gasp, clawing at her throat and the feeling of ice cold hands lingers on her skin like a ghost.

She's shaking, the thin sheets clenched in her fists so tight the skin of her knuckles is turning white. It's dark in the train car and she's strangely comforted by the rocking of the train, by the loud hissing of the steam engine. She can't imagine how Evie manages to sleep so close the front of the train, so close to the roar of the engine.

Lottie runs her hands through her sweat soaked hair, drawing her knees to her chest. Tears sting at her eyes and her throat burns, that familiar ache that clogs up her throat and warns her that a breakdown is near.

 _No, no_ , she thinks, blinking rapidly, swallowing, shaking her head. _No more tears_.

She's cried her share of tears, for her father, for herself, for Millie, for Noah and Sarah and John. She won't cry anymore. Not anymore.

Lottie's sigh is long and tired as she drops her head on her knees, forcing herself to get it together, forcing herself to remember who's at fault for her position, for the turn her life as taken.

 _Lynch_ , she thinks once more, reciting the name over and over in her head like a mantra. _Lynch_.

But she can't get back to sleep, no matter what she tries. She lays her head down on the pillow behind her, cool with her sweat, and stares at the ceiling, wishing that the exhaustion she'd felt previously will catch up to her, that her eyelids will droop and her nightmare will be long forgotten.

But the memory remains, hidden in the shadows in the back of her mind, creeping forward just when she thinks she might be able to sleep again.

It's pesters her, presses at her, until she's swinging her feet around the bed, placing her bare feet on the carpet of the train car.

"Time to test that theory," she mutters, tugging at the hem of her nightshirt, reaching for her trousers, forgotten and thrown over the back of the armchair when she'd woken and realised she'd fallen asleep there.

The night air is chilly and the wind is biting as she passes between cars, intent on reaching the dining car and finding something strong to drink behind the bar.

There's a couple of Rooks awake, leaning against the bar and talking in hushed tones, and they incline their heads when she walks in, shutting the car door gently behind her. There's no sign of Jacob Frye and Lottie finds that surprising and disheartening. Part of her hoped he might be up, that he might help her forget what she's there for as he's wont to do.

She doesn't like how he does that, doesn't like how he encourages her to forget the mission and take a gang stronghold, how he unintentionally makes her forget that she wants to avenge her father's death and nothing else. She doesn't like how caught up she gets in him, how she's suddenly willing to help them take back London, to take down Crawford Starrick and his Templar empire.

"Miss Crawley," one of the Rooks says; a young man, green jacket hanging open and an untidy red beard.

The woman beside him inclines her head once more when Lottie goes behind the bar, drawing down a bottle of whiskey and taking a swig from the bottle, revelling in the burn that travels down her throat, the sweet taste that lingers on her taste buds.

The woman whistles. Her dark hair is wild and tangled and she fiddles with the yellow sash wrapped around her wrist.

"Rough night?" She says.

Lottie takes another swig of the bottle. "You could say that."

The man reaches for an empty glass beside him, pushes it lightly towards her. It scrapes along the wooden counter, catches the flickering flames of the gaslights around them.

"If you would be so kind," he says and Lottie huffs out a laugh at the woman's horrified expression, at the jabbing of her elbow into his ribs.

" _Jack_ ," the woman hisses but Lottie's pouring him a glass anyway. "You can't just-"

"It's fine," she cuts in. There's an empty glass beside her and she slides it over, gestures to it idly, pours the amber liquid in at the woman's shocked, wordless nod.

Lottie's drinks straight from the bottle again and she slumps into a barstool straight after, feels the effects of the alcohol already, the blessed light-headedness that she hasn't fell in she's not sure how long.

"So what has you up this late, miss," Jack says, watching her curiously, "if you don't mind me asking."

Lottie considers her words carefully.

"Demons," she says and she downs another swig of whiskey.

Jack nods. "That's a familiar tale, if ever I heard one, miss."

"Jack, you shouldn't be _pressing_ -"

"Oh, Bonny, come on," says Jack, "take her off that damn pedestal of yours. She's human, like the rest o' us slobs."

Bonny worries at her lip and won't meet Lottie's eyes. Lottie holds her hand out for Jack and she's glad when he takes it, shakes it firmly.

"Lottie," she introduces. "I doubt if there's any need for formalities this late."

"Early, more like," Jack says. "Jack. This snaggletooth is Bonny."

Lottie's eyes dart to the clock but she doesn't even take in the time, finding it too difficult to focus on it.

"Nice to meet you," she says, with a nod in each of their directions. "What's got you two up so late?"

"We're the only ones left," says Jack. "Some of the fellas took off to the streets, chasing off some of those bastardin' Blighters."

"The rest are, well..." Bonny gestures around her, to the Rooks passed out in the booths, much like yesterday morning.

Lottie's amazed this gang gets anything done, with the amount of time they spend passed out on the train. She nods slowly and the whiskey bottle returns to her lips, the liquid burns its way down her throat once more.

"Slow down there, miss," says Jack and Lottie's surprised to see concern etched onto his tanned features. "One would think you're trying to knock yerself out."

"I am," Lottie finds herself saying because she's loose lipped and it's not a lie.

Bonny's eyes go wide and Lottie watches in amusement as she shares a surprised look with Jack, as the two of them look back to her, to the bottle in her hands. She sets it back down on the bar surface.

Her smirk is jaded, her eyes red and she knocks into the bar one too many times on her way out.

"Maybe I'll see you both here tomorrow," she throws over her shoulder, right before she closes the door behind her, before she stumbles back to her car and throws herself back onto her bed.

* * *

When she wakes up again, it's from a night of agitated tossing and turning, of being unable to fall asleep even as she tried to.

Lottie's strapping the worn leather belt carrying her throwing knives onto her leg, pondering on her next move, when Henry knocks at the door, poking his head in to see her.

She smiles warmly, nods at him, and reaches for her jacket, hastily thrown over the back of the armchair at the door. She's shrugging into it when he speaks.

"I have a job for you," he says after a moment and Lottie's ears perk up and her fingers freeze over the buttons of her coat.

"Oh?"

Her surprise is evident in her tone. It still seems early, she thinks, for her to be going out on missions alone. She's still a novice, really, so why would Henry be sending her out alone? She's only been with them for the better part of three weeks – she hasn't even taken an oath for the Brotherhood. What's changed that they trust her to complete a mission alone?

She voices these opinions, waits with baited breath for Henry to reply, to consider his words.

"Your father spoke highly of you," he says eventually. Lottie's breath catches in her throat. "I trust his judgment a great deal. I have every confidence that you can overcome whatever obstacle the Brotherhood sets in your path, and I have no doubt that you will become a great asset to us."

Lottie bites back a biting retort, a hastily said, _I'm not an asset now_? and instead settles for a cool smile as she returns to doing up her coat buttons.

"Are you feeling alright?" Henry asks next and Lottie's surprised to see concern on his features.

She nods. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Henry shakes his head, steps further into the car with her. He doesn't say anything else on her welfare, and Lottie's absurdly grateful. She feels like she got a little more sleep, before the nightmare that woke her up, before the cold hands wrapped around her throat, the suffocation she felt upon waking.

"I want you to follow up on some leads of mine," Henry tells her, "about a Templar named Martin Church."

He reaches behind him and draws out a scrap of paper, a sketch of a man drawn hastily. A square jaw, dark hair and a thick beard, Church looks imposing and angry, and doubts begin to surface in Lottie's mind.

She presses them down, meets Henry's eyes as strongly as she can.

"What do we know about him?"

"He was convicted of murder," Henry says and Lottie listens closely, gut churning, "but he escaped imprisonment. My spies tell me he has found refuge at Lambeth palace. I need you to go there, find out what you can, and report back to me."

Lottie blinks. "You don't want me to kill him?"

"Not yet." He shoots her a wry smile. "That comes later."

She nods, accepting the answer.

For now.

"What about the Soothing Syrup?" Lottie recalls, "We had a lead."

"Jacob is continuing your investigation alone," she's told, and doesn't _that_ sound suspicious, Lottie thinks.

But she says nothing, nodding again, thinking that it's strange that she's going to watch a Templar for the day when she could kill him and take some of the pressure off Jacob and his investigation. If she was to kill him, the Blighters would probably turn their attention to locating her, rather than watching what Jacob's doing.

 _Stop_ , Lottie thinks suddenly, realising belatedly that she may have been spending too much time with Jacob lately. That's exactly what he would do, she thinks, rather than follow the orders he's given, he would take matters into his own hands and take the Templar out.

Jonathan Crawley's lessons come to the forefront of her mind; the Council knows what's best. If this order was coming from higher up, she knows she'd be expected to follow it. It's what her father would expect of her, what the Brotherhood expects of her.

 _No complaints_ , she thinks, nodding to herself. _There is only the mission_.

"It will be done," she tells Henry confidently.

Henry inclines his head. "May the Creed guide you."

She staring at the sketch when Henry leaves, memorising the lines of her target's face, but between Henry opening and closing the door, she hears voices – a fight.

She's on her feet, folding the paper in half and slipping it into her breast pocket as she follows Henry, follows him in the direction of the voices – Jacob and Evie.

Lottie thinks she shouldn't really be surprised – they seem to fight _all the time_ – but this fight isn't like the spat she'd witnessed a couple of days ago, the argument over what's more important to liberate London. Their voices are raised, angry against calm, and Lottie almost doesn't want to step over the gap and enter the car with them.

"It was a knock to the _head_ , Evie," Jacob's saying loudly, unworriedly. "You're acting as though I'd gotten her killed!"

"That's beside the point, Jacob," his sister snaps, reprimanding, nothing like the calm, exhausted woman who'd given her advice the night before. "You never think! Lottie is an asset to us and you _could_ have gotten her killed!"

"She's not a _novice_ , Evie-"

"Yes, she _is_ , Jacob-"

She doesn't want to be here, she doesn't want to be listening to this, because she's not sure whose side she's on. She's not sure if she should be offended at Evie calling her a novice, even though she is, and she's not sure if she should be grateful to Jacob for standing up for her, for giving her credit where it's due.

Because, really, she hasn't done anything yet that Jacob can't do himself, so there's no need for him to be on her side.

She's thinking it's time to leave, time to get out before they notice she's standing there, before she makes things worse, when Evie glances up over Jacob's shoulder and spots her.

Lottie watches Evie straighten her back, watches Jacob turn to look at her, all of it as if in slow motion. She doesn't know where to put herself.

"Good morning," she says, a little uncomfortably but she refuses to show her discomfort, refuses to fiddle with her sleeves, no matter how much she wants to. She meets Jacob and Evie's eyes head on, no fear, no worry. 

"Finally," Jacob sighs and he's standing straighter now, looking more relaxed now. "Let's get going then, shall we? I need to vent my frustrations on some unsuspecting Blighter's face."

That sets Lottie back a step, blinking owlishly at Jacob and looking to Henry for clarification. Doesn't Jacob _know_? Have they kept him out of the loop?

"Um-"

"Lottie has other priorities," Evie says, sweeping to her rescue.

Lottie's not sure if it's much of a rescue, actually, because Jacob's face turns thunderous and he's looking between Evie and Henry and Lottie incredulously.

"Surely you're jesting," he says at last, with a huff of a laugh. "Lottie-"

"Is unavailable," cuts in Evie. Her face remains cool and collected under her brother's murderous eyes. "Surely you haven't become dependent on her presence?"

"But the distillery-"

He's almost pleading, Lottie thinks, looking at her for help, looking so _betrayed_ and she hates it, because she wants nothing more than to follow up on the Soothing Syrup leads. She almost slumps her shoulders, almost shows him that she's frustrated too, but the words are on the tip of her tongue and all she can see is her father's disapproving glower, the furrowing of his brows.

Heart in her mouth, Lottie forces her face into a blank mask, and says, "I'm sorry, Mr Frye. I'm needed elsewhere."

Jacob nods, angry, resentful, and refuses to meet her eyes. Lottie hates him for it, hates him for blaming her when this wasn't her decision. This wasn't her idea, she wants to tell him, and if she had things her way nothing would be different. They'd be hitting the distillery as planned, together, finishing what they started.

Angry words build inside her; _none of this would be happening if we'd hit the distillery last night_ , she aches to say, the words ready to burst forth from her lips.

Jacob storms past her and his arm brushes hers as he does and Lottie can't help but feel like he was about to knock into her and changed his mind at the last minute. She watches him go sadly, feels like her day will be missing something now, some excitement, some _fun,_ but Evie's scoffing and shaking her head and Lottie needs to focus now.

"Forget him," Evie says, "he'll have forgotten all about it tomorrow."

 _And I'll see him later_ , she thinks, _and try to explain_.

The sketch of her target feels heavy in her breast pocket, and she's not sure why she's not prouder to be finally given a chance to show how good she is, how willing she is to help them.

 _Maybe it's because I've never been willing_ , she reasons. _They're trusting me with this target when I have no interest in their plight_.

But is that true? Doubts are becoming her friend, Lottie realises dismally, because she'd gone into all of this hoping for comfort and safety until she forms a plan to take out Lynch. Now she's spying on targets for them, helping Jacob take out gang strongholds for his gang, asking Evie to keep her updated on the Piece of Eden hunt.

Is it all really so black and white anymore?

Lottie wants to bang her head against the nearest wall – maybe that will clear up her muddled thoughts and obligations.

 _I've never taken an oath for the Brotherhood,_ she reflects, watching Henry and Evie, standing closely together, looking through Evie's notes on the desk. _I've never cared about it before. Why am I still here_?

 _Why haven't I killed Lynch yet_?

 _Why haven't I left London already_?

She stumbles when she lands on the gravel, the train whizzing past behind her, leaving her behind to begin her task.

She doesn't know the answers to her questions and she doubts if she'll find them anytime soon.


	9. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie just can't say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at my sister's right now, so this is being posted from my iPad and is probably riddled with mistakes but enjoy!

Lottie knows Church's routine better than he does.

She's been watching him for a week, watching the Blighter's around him, listening in on conversations, but Henry hasn't given her the go ahead yet, the signal she is so desperately craving.

She's had so many openings, she reflects angrily, so many lost opportunities and she hasn't had anything new to report for two days now.

"Patience," Henry had counselled her that morning. "It is not yet time."

If now's not the time, Lottie thinks bitterly, picking at her nails, then when?

It's raining again, the mid-spring showers that have been coming and going all day and Lottie's getting tired of laying her clothes out to dry every night.

Why am I here? Lottie thinks again, for what she feels might actually be the tenth time in five minutes. What am I doing?

It's sitting behind the balcony, peering through the gaps in the stone to Lambeth Palace across the road, that she thinks more than ever that she should never have located Henry Green, that she should never have followed Clara to that bloody train.

I could have had Lynch by now, she thinks, flexing her wrist, watching her hidden blade pop out, watching the reflection of the grey clouds overhead in the metal. His life would be no more.

But, instead, she's sitting impatiently behind a balcony of worn grey stone, following the movements of a man she has no interest in.

"Jacob would have finished him off long ago," she mutters savagely, watching Church stroll around the gardens. (It's lunch; he'll walk for fifteen minutes, pass the two guards at the entry way- out of sight for five minutes, perfect opening).

"Evie would follow Henry's council," she finishes, eyes on the Blighter on the roof. The woman has placed her gun down to adjust her hair, to brush the strands out of her eyes (she loses sight of Church once every ten minutes- have to strike then when she's not prepared).

It's all fine and good knowing what the Frye's would do, Lottie thinks, and her fingers are moving slowly, subconsciously, to her hood, where she longs to pull it up, to make a move-

"But Jacob and Evie aren't here," she laments aloud, finishing her thoughts, gathering herself to her feet. "And if I have to stay here and watch him for one more day, I'll kill myself."

"Solid thinking," says a voice behind her, and she's spinning on the spot, letting loose a throwing knife before she can even get her bearings.

Jacob dodges smoothly, carelessly, and Lottie's breath leaves her in a relieved rush.

"Mr Frye," she rasps and her heart is hammering against her ribcage. "I could have killed you!"

"Hardly," Jacob replies, glancing pointedly at the knife embedded in stone behind his head. He dislodges it, hands it to her carefully, easily, wearing a carefree smile and his eyes twinkling mischievously.

For a moment, Lottie forgets their last encounter, the betrayed look he'd shot her, the cold look she'd given him in return. She wants to know why he's here, grasping her knife from his hand, dodging his eyes, but she's too nervous to ask the question.

So, instead she says, "How goes the investigation into the Soothing Syrup?"

"Oh, I met a lovely fellow snooping around the distillery," Jacob tells her, leaning against the balcony and acting incredibly blasé. "We agreed to meet at the Asylum tomorrow evening to put a stop to the whole thing once and for all."

"So you found out why the Templars were making trips to the asylum then?"

Jacob nods seriously. "John Elliotson."

The carefree smile returns to his face and his posture is languid as he leans against the balcony, all the grace of a cat.

Lottie nearly misses the balcony when joins him.

She recovers before she can lose her footing but the smug smirk on his face tells her he saw the whole thing. Lottie raises a hand to brush her hair from her eyes, curious eyes watching the other assassin.

She knows the name – Elliotson. She thinks she can recall seeing it on the papers of her father's desk, the scattered notes he always kept in her sight but never within reach. She wonders if her father had been following up on the Soothing Syrup as well, if he'd been preparing to deliver his notes to Henry Green and let him take care of it.

All that Henry knows about the Soothing Syrup... was that really because of her father?

"The medicine-" Jacob spits the word contemptuously "-is a combination of opium and devil's snare. All who drink it are made subservient." 

"Making them susceptible to Templar control," Lottie finishes, turning her head to Lambeth palace, to Martin Church taking his afternoon stroll of the gardens.

"Exactly."

Jacob's voice has lowered, all growly and angry, and Lottie's stomach somersaults. She struggles to recall what he said before, struggles to keep herself together enough to remain in control. Jacob's got an unfair advantage, she thinks, being all attractive like this.

It throws her for a loop far too many times.

"Opium and devil's snare," she says aloud, and Jacob looks up from his bracer, from the new attachment Lottie can clearly see.

They must have visited Mr Bell again, she thinks bitterly, without me. Because I was here watching Church stroll around shrubbery.

Jacob catches the dirty look she shoots at his bracer, the envious twitch of her eyes, and raises his hands, palms up.

"Aleck didn't forget about you," he says, placating, "Greenie said he'd pass them on to you."

Lottie huffs. "He hasn't yet."

"Maybe he's been busy with his flowers."

"Flowers?"

"Yes. He and my sister are both fascinated by their hidden meanings."

She doesn't miss the mocking undertone to his words.

Lottie blinks. "They're flowers."

"Yes, I know."

Lottie shakes her head, resolves to chase up Henry when she returns to the train later. She's wondering how to phrase the question when she ponders if Henry – or Evie, for that matter, because they're never far away from each other – knows that Jacob's here.

Are they even supposed to be talking to one another?

Lottie feels like a child again, doing something she shouldn't, speaking to someone she shouldn't. She's expecting her father to come round the corner and scold her, to crouch in front of her in that way he always did, wearing that gentle expression with the underlying anger and frustration.

You mustn't play with them Charlotte, he'd say, you mustn't.

She still doesn't know why.

She shakes her head, returns to the question bouncing back and forth in her brain.

"Opium and devil's snare," she repeats. "How did you find that out?"

"I didn't," Jacob huffs. "I met a man, charming fellow. Charles Darwin, said his name was. He's invited himself along, in any case."

"Darwin," Lottie repeats sceptically. "The naturalist?"

Jacob shrugs. "Would explain how he knew about the plants in the Syrup. How do you know him?"

Lottie shakes her head, pictures her father's desk in her mind, the papers.

"My father," she muses aloud, before she can stop herself, "his desk was always covered in notes. I think he was going to seek out Mr Darwin's help."

Now Jacob looks sceptical, pushing off from the balcony and looking down at her. Lottie's not sure what's worse; the relaxed posture he'd had before, the careless vibe he gave off, or the serious expression he wears now, the suspicion.

"Why would your father have Darwin's name?"

Lottie wrings her hands together, frowns at a crack in the stone of the balcony.

"I think we may be finishing what he started," she says slowly, still trying to wrap her head around it all. "I'm sure I've seen these names before – on his desk. Elliotson. Darwin. I don't think he got very far into his investigation before-"

She doesn't say any more, turning away from Jacob pointedly. She hears Jacob's intake of breath, sees his shoulders relax out the corner of her eye.

Jacob continues, filling the awkward silence that follows her words, "Darwin said Elliotson was a heart specialist. He ruined his career."

"So Starrick decided to help him regain it?"

Jacob nods. Lottie's picking at the stone with her nails now, pondering his words, wondering why he's telling her this in the first place. Church is disappearing inside the large double doors now, the sniper on the roof has disappeared from view, the guards are changing shifts.

Perfect time to strike, Lottie thinks irritably, watching it all from afar, knowing the routine.

She sighs. "Why are you telling me this, Mr Frye?"

Jacob doesn't meet her eyes. He's looking to the sniper on the roof, a new one, a change in shift, the guards patrolling the gardens. His eyes are alert and keen and Lottie sees his hands clenching into fists, the excited smile that starts to spread across his lips.

"I'd say we've given Mr Church a week longer to live than he deserves," he muses, side-eyeing her and Lottie thinks he's gauging her reaction.

I've given him a week longer, she wants to say. There's no we here, it's been me sitting here all week!

"That doesn't answer my question," she says instead.

Jacob huffs again and looks to consider his words carefully. Lottie watches him all the while, waiting, anticipating, dreading the words that will come out of his mouth, willing herself to be strong. The last thing she wants is Jacob to convince her that eliminating Church early will be a good idea, that Henry's opinion doesn't matter.

I need his good opinion, she thinks, but I'd also like to stay on Jacob's good side too.

Finally, Jacob says sincerely, "It's a waste of your talents to have you sitting here."

She's not sure what talents he's speaking of, because her lack of experience in the field has never been made more evident than when he snuck up on her and she let loose a knife without looking first.

Lottie takes a deep breath, considering his words, knowing Henry would disapprove, knowing Henry has a plan. Why else would he have had her sit here for a week and not allow her to make her move?

Jacob just wants a good fight, she hears Evie say, damn the consequences.

"Come on, Lottie," Jacob breathes, "we can take him out now."

"And after?" she finds herself asking, because he wants a fight and damn it, so does she. She's been sitting there long enough.

Jacob shoots her a wry smile.

"You scratch my back," he says. "It's time we stop Soothing Syrup production once and for all."


	10. Trouble Has a Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences hit Lottie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~in case you guys haven't realised yet, i am awful at keeping to schedules...~~ sorry for the wait!

Charles Darwin is struggling with an umbrella when they approach, eyes bright and smiles on their faces, laughs on their lips and a skip in their step.

Lottie hasn't seen Evie or Henry yet and she's not sure whether she should consider that a blessing or not. Because Lottie _gets_ it, she does, why Evie dislikes Jacob's methods, why she doesn't agree with leaping headfirst into a fight and eliminating a target before it's _time_.

But Martin Church was a disgusting, cruel, uncaring leech of a man who murdered his own _brother_ , and Lottie can't find it in herself to regret her actions. She can still feel his warm blood on her cold hands, can still see the life seeping from him, his eyes dulling as they looked up at her and an unanswered question lingering on his lips.

No, she doesn't regret it at all.

"Mr Frye," greets Charles Darwin jubilantly. He releases the umbrella, and Lottie watches it trundle away from them on the harsh evening gales until it's inevitably crushed under horses hooves. His eyes wander briefly over Lottie and she inclines her head in silent greeting.

Jacob gestures to her lazily with one hand and introduces, "My colleague, Charlotte Crawley."

She takes Darwin's hand when he offers, smiling gently, and says, "Mr Frye has told me much about you. A pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine, my dear," he returns and the way he smiles reminds her of her grandfather when she was a little girl. She watches his face harden in concentration, watches his eyes trail over her face until he finally says, "Crawley. I recognise that name."

"Yes," Lottie says, nodding, "I believe my father attempted to contact you some time ago."

She watches realisation light up Darwin's face. "Yes, yes, Jonathan Crawley. I was unable to receive a reply when I answered his query."

Lottie imagines her father probably burned the papers on his desks when the Templars laid siege to their home. Once an assassin, after all, she thinks sulkily, and not for the last time she wishes her father had been honest with her, that she might have been able to continue where he left off immediately following his _murder_.

But then part of the blame falls to on her shoulders as well, she realises dully. Had she shown more of an interest in the Assassin-Templar war, things might have been different. Perhaps her father would have sent her to investigate the Soothing Syrup sooner, perhaps the notes on his desk would have been her own observations.

She hears the lilt in the end of Darwin's sentence, the subtle query hidden in the words, and her mouth dries up and no matter how much she swallows, she can't say anything.

_It's been weeks_ , she thinks, a touch angrily, _why can't I talk about it yet?_

"Sadly," Jacob says and Lottie tries not to flinch when his hand brushes her arm, a comforting, fleeting touch that sends electric shocks through her and forces her to look at her fellow assassin. "Jonathan Crawley is no longer with us."

He speaks like a man who has experience with these conversations and his eyes hold no sympathy when he meets her gaze, only understanding and Lottie realises Jacob _does_ have experience here. She hates that one of the things they have in common is the loss of a parent so recently.

Charles Darwin says, "Ah," softly, and then, louder, but still wary of the open street, "I trust you had a _productive_ meeting with Mr Owen."

_Back to business_ , Lottie thinks, with a relieved, subtle sigh.

He says the aforementioned Mr _Owen_ like it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth and Lottie watches his face scrunch up in distaste.

"Oh _yes_ ," chuckles Jacob, and the sound is oddly endearing, "we had a most _wonderful_ chat." He sobers and his expression turns grim but Lottie doesn't miss the twinkle of excitement in his eyes, hidden behind the dour mien. "I've found that the man behind Starrick's Soothing Syrup is John Elliotson."

Darwin's eyes go wide and he starts to pace, angry words spilling from his mouth as he passes Lottie, "Dr Elliotson, I haven't heard that name in a long while. He was a brilliant heart specialist, until he became _obsessed_ with phrenology and mesmerism. It ruined his career."

Lottie's interest is piqued with this new information; the brief account Jacob had given her the previous afternoon had given her only that Elliotson ruined his career – no information on _how_. A heart specialist taking such a drastic obsession with the mind seems intriguing to Lottie and if the circumstances weren't so dire, if the people of London weren't suffering from the continued distribution of the Soothing Syrup, she might've taken a little more time to research Elliotson some more.

It seems like the approach Evie would take, Lottie thinks, researching everything there is to know about the target, planning every step, anticipating every outcome.

Instead she's with Jacob, watching his twitching fingers, his itchy feet, his _keen_ eyes darting to the asylum every few minutes. They have no plan yet, not even an inclination of one.

Lottie's not sure if the thought is comforting or frightening.

She watches Charles Darwin, with a sudden bounce in his step, and the seriousness of his previous words seem forgotten now as he grins at them.

"How shall we proceed?"

Lottie can't help the smile that tugs at her lips, watching the eager older man across from them, so desperate to help, so _willing_. She almost wants to tell Jacob to let him help them, to let him get in the way and see what they actually _do_.

"With all respect, Mr Darwin," Jacob starts, lifting one hand to halt the other man, "I believe Miss Crawley and I should proceed alone. After all, we wouldn't want to attract any..." he pauses, leans in close, and Lottie feels like she's missing out on some inside joke, "... _unwanted attention_."

Darwin leans back, nodding once, and says slowly, "Sounds very _wise_." And then, loudly, with a clap to Jacob's arm, "Good luck, my boy!"

He's leaving, turning on his heel and stepping onto the road, and Lottie's exchanging a smile with Jacob. They're finally alone and it's finally time to bring an end to the Soothing Syrup they've spent so much time investigating.

Lottie opens her mouth to speak but Darwin has turned again and he's saying, "Should you find yourself with any free time, please, _do_ call on me."

Lottie knows that feeling, that small smile and the glint of mischief in Darwin's eyes. She's feeling it now, the rush of being involved in one of Jacob's reckless plans, the excitement of being a part of a fight, of jumping in headfirst without really knowing how it will all turn out.

She can see the appeal in his methods, when she thinks about it that way, can see why Evie's meticulous planning might seem unbearable. Where's the fun in having planned for every possible outcome?

She can still hear Darwin's whistling as he strolls away from them, hardly a care in the world, and Jacob's smiling, boyish expression is changing into a sombre, serious one and it's so strange because she's never really seen it before, never seen him so focussed.

"Shall we?" he says, with a sweep of his hand in the direction of the asylum and his lips turned up in a half-smirk and she's swept up in him all over again.

Lottie grins. "Yes. Let's."

* * *

There's a trail of dead bodies behind them and Jacob's crouching in front of her, one finger on his lips as he shushes her.

Lottie's mildly offended that he would think her that much of a novice to be unable to hold her tongue so close to an opportunity but they're too close for her to chew him out now.

_Later_ , she resolves, nodding once in his direction, _Later._

She can still recall the sight from the window, the moment she'd decided unreservedly that Elliotson had to die; the poor man, she thinks, lying on that table, trusting in the doctor only for him to watch uncaringly, unflinchingly, as he ended his life.

All in the pursuit of _medicine_ , she thinks angrily, grinding her teeth together, recalling the way he'd stepped away and turned to his students, using the man's death like an _experiment_ , a _lesson_.

The young doctor is in the corner, fussing over tools, and Jacob's moving, slowly, still crouching, towards the sheet covered table with the cadaver.

Lottie knows the plan, they've been over and _over_ it on the way down here, but it still feels risky. At any moment, the doctor could turn around and catch him, and Lottie's hand is clenching around the throwing knife in her grasp, their unofficial _back up plan_.

She's willing him not to, willing him to remain oblivious to all that's happening behind him. He's innocent, after all, and the words of the Creed are cycling around in her brain, in front of her eyes, _warning_ her.

She sheathes the knife and knows she must come up with something different in the likelihood he turns around.

Jacob stands, rips the sheet from the prone body on the table. The young doctor footers with tools on the table. Lottie holds her breath.

Jacob passes her quickly, stashes the body in a cupboard in the other room, and grins wolfishly.

"I have to go alone from here," he tells her quietly, and Lottie nods, watching over his shoulder for any guards that might surprise them. "Think you can remember the way out?"

Lottie huffs a laugh. "Of course. Give that bastard hell." She adds, though the words leave a bitter taste in the mouth, "May the Creed guide you."

Jacob nods once but doesn't return her words. Lottie tip toes back the way they'd come, past the deceased guards on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, the pool of blood in front of one of the doors.

Screams haunt her, loud and ragged, like they've done since she and Jacob snuck into the asylum. Jacob had seemed too alike his sister then, when he'd told her, "Leave him, we'll help him when we've finished here," but Lottie's not a Frye, and she can't leave a man to suffer in the name of the mission.

_Besides_ , Lottie thinks, creeping silently up the stairs, watching over her shoulder, _Elliotson's not my target, this isn't_ _my_ _mission. Who's to say I can't help a suffering patient?_

The guards don't even look up from the screaming, struggling man on the table before them. Lottie finds it disgusting how stoic their expression are, how unmoving their faces appear. Each scream ripped from the patient's throat sends her stomach churning, makes her heart bleed.

_Damn Templars_ , she thinks, glowering at their backs, reaching for the knives at her belt.

She inhales a quiet, shuddering breath, focusses her aim, wills it to be true. She lets it loose, watches the knife fly silently through the air-

And embed itself in the wall above the stairs they stand before.

Her jaw clenches and she wants to punch something, hating how rusty her skills still are, how little time she's managed to get to practice.

They've stopped their torture at least, she thinks, focussed now instead on the knife imbedded in the plaster beside their heads.

Lottie lets loose another one and she sends a silent prayer to whoever might be listening when it buries itself in the neck of the man closest to her. The shout of the other is cut off abruptly when she launches herself from the shadows and swipes his legs out from under him, jabbing her hidden blade into his throat and silencing him quickly.

The patient lies still on the table, occasionally shuddering but saying nothing. His eyelids flutter and he groans quietly but his eyes do not open.

Lottie's not sure how to feel about her rescue going unnoticed by him, the man she'd rescued. She'd hoped for some gratitude, a smile and some tears of joy, but instead all she can hear are her father's words in her ear; _hide in plain sight_.

_It's better this way_ , she thinks, retrieving her throwing knives and fleeing from the scene. _He never has to know I was even here_.

She hears the first of the screams and outraged shouts when she's on the roof, and at least she can say she was a little more subtle than Jacob Frye, who's probably going to have the whole of London after him now, if Evie Frye doesn't get to him first.

There's a smile on his face when they meet again, on the rooftop opposite the asylum, watching students and Templars alike bursting through doors and onto the grounds, distraught and crying.

"All went according to plan?" Lottie quips, leaning against the balcony and she probably sounds like Evie, she thinks, considering the dirty look Jacob gives her. She throws him a sly smirk as he joins her, panting lightly and catching his breath.

He looks troubled, Lottie thinks, but only for a moment. It disappears as quickly as it had come and he's arrogant again, grinning at her and standing so close their arms touch.

He whips out a bloodstained handkerchief from his breast pocket and Lottie's watches, fascinated, as he waves it in front of her face. There's another stain on there, darker, older, and she frowns at it, recalls the two portraits in the train, the bold red X across them.

"Dr John Elliotson is no more," he tells her breathily, cockily, pocketing the fabric.

Lottie watches him tuck it away, tries to recall any lesson her father gave her but all she can think is that the practice of collecting blood from the target is reminiscent of the Levantine Brotherhood, way back when. She finds she quite likes the idea of collecting blood as proof of death, and wonders if Henry would have advised to do that if-

Lottie swallows. She hates the feeling of dread that pools in her stomach, the way her heart drops like a stone. She doesn't regret her actions, not at all, but she can't help but feel like it might have been a mistake.

"Let's inform the others, shall we?" She asks and she's proud that her voice doesn't betray how nervous she is, how anxious she is to just get it all _over_ with.

She's expecting the worst and hoping for the best, but deep down she knows she might have done wrong by being so easily encouraged, so easily swayed by Jacob Frye.

He leads the way from the rooftop, leaping elegantly into the haystack below, and Lottie peers over the edge, waits until he's clear before she follows.

* * *

Jacob steals a carriage for them but they're gone before the poor sod can realise what's happened.

"I think I'm going to take some of my Rooks under wing," he tells her conversationally, "train them up a little bit more."

Lottie nods. "Would be nice to know they can look after themselves in Blighter territory."

"My thoughts exactly," replies the other assassin. "Then I'll train Enforcers and we'll have our own carriages and our own contacts in the city. We won't need Greenie and my sister's _focused_ aid."

She frowns at that, unsure, but doesn't say anything. She thinks all contacts of any kind are useful, even if they're in the police force, even if they're children, even if they're Enforcers in a gang.

_Information is_ _power_ , she remembers her father telling her, and she wonders briefly if that's why Evie plans her every move in a mission, if that's why Henry was encouraging her to watch Church for so long.

"You could help," Jacob says suddenly, turning his head to look at her and wearing a broad grin that lights up his face.

"Me?" Lottie scoffs. "I'm still trying to remember everything my father taught me. I'd be no use at all training someone else."

Jacob's grin falters, but he says, "Then stop trying to remember what you were taught. Teach your own lessons."

_My own lessons_ , Lottie thinks. _I don't have any, not yet_.

She shrugs. "Let's wait until my skills aren't quite so rusty, yes?"

"Practice, practice, lovely Lottie."

_Yes, practice_ , she thinks. It would be nice if she had the time to. She wonders if she's going to spend her whole life second-guessing herself, overthinking, wondering if everything would be different if she'd taken an interest sooner.

Would her skills be so below par if she'd listened to her father _sooner_? Would she still be a novice in Evie Frye's eyes if she'd already been investigating the Soothing Syrup when the twins arrived in London? Would Henry be asking her advice on missions?

It makes her sad to think about, makes her nostalgic for something she'll never have.

_Who knows how long they'll think me a novice_ , she thinks, picking at her nails. _I'll never be at the same level as the Frye's_.

Even with Jacob she follows his lead, so easily swayed by his words and actions and _smile_. Someone he considered his equal would not be so easily led astray.

They abandon the carriage a street over from the train station, and Lottie hides the shaking of her hands by fiddling with the lapels of her coat. If Jacob notices how fidgety she is he doesn't say, but she catches him giving her strange looks when he thinks she's not paying attention.

She's tired suddenly and wondering if she should just bring a bottle of whiskey to her car with her, to save the inevitable trip later, to save the inevitable questions from her unofficial drinking buddies.

Jack and Bonny always seem to be there when she's drawn from sleep, drawn sluggishly to the dining car and to the bottle behind the bar. She's yet to run into Jacob so late, and she finds it ironic that, with his yearning for fights and _excitement_ , he'd be in bed while she's up, sharing a bottle with two of his Rooks.

"Someone's deep in thought," says Jacob over his shoulder. He whips off the flat cap on his head, runs his hands through his hair and Lottie's fascinated.

His hair is just as dark as his twin but where Evie's is pinned back from her face, braided and elegant, his is unkempt and wild. It says a lot about them, Lottie thinks, and she finds herself subconsciously reaching for the blonde mop atop her own head, running her hands through the tangles, wondering when the last time she brushed it was.

She probably looks more like Jacob than Evie right now and she's not sure if she likes that or not.

"Something bothering you?" Jacob presses and she remembers his observation from before.

Lottie shrugs. "Plenty of things," she tells him, "none of them worth wasting your time and thought on."

"Perhaps I want to waste my time," Jacob tells her.

She thinks he's trying to be serious, but the half-smirk and the playful glint in his eyes, the way he's half leaning down to her, intruding just oh so _rightly_ on her personal space tells her otherwise.

She shakes her head and presses on, passing him with a brush of shoulders and no other words said between them. He lingers but eventually follows, the sound of his heavy footsteps the only thing Lottie can hear for the longest time.

Henry and Evie are waiting for them when they enter. They're leaning against Evie's desk, speaking in hushed tones and pointing at some of the papers before them. Evie's keen eyes follow Jacob when she turns, watching him with narrowed eyes as he crosses the car to the assassination wall – to the portrait of John Elliotson.

Lottie barely has time to wonder when the portrait was set up, how long Jacob has been staring at the doctor's face, before Jacob is wielding a brush dabbed in red ink.

Elliotson's face is marred with a large red X and Jacob tosses the brush the side, uncaring where it lands, before collapsing in a heap on the sofa opposite.

He looks so _proud_ of himself, Lottie thinks, showing off his achievements while Evie and Henry mutter and question about the Piece of Eden that may or may not exist.

Jacob acts surprised to see Evie and Henry staring at him, and while Lottie is far too aware of Evie's irritated gaze trailing over her, Jacob doesn't seem at all affected.

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Jacob, looking over the other two assassins, "Am I interrupting something?"

"John Elliotson is dead, I take it?" Evie asks, and Lottie can hear the irritation in her tone, can see it in the narrowing of her eyes, the clenching of her fists. Henry Green looks remarkably calm in comparison.

"No, Evie," sighs Jacob and Lottie can hear the annoyance behind his mocking words, "I just wanted to try my hand at painting."

" _Jacob_."

"Yes. John Elliotson is dead and with him the production of Starrick's Soothing Syrup."

Lottie feels like she should mention that Jacob's method involved little discretion, that there were plenty of _witnesses_ , but the glowering stares travelling between Evie and Jacob and the biting words exchanged do nothing to encourage her.

She doesn't want to be on Evie _or_ Jacob's bad sides, not when they're some of the only allies she has.

Jacob looks smug and proud, launching himself to his feet and passing her with only a haughty little smirk sent her way, the same look that is starting to do more than just make her blush.

She watches him leave, watches him disappear among the crowd of Rooks in the dining car, watches the smiles and grins on the faces of his gang members. It's tempting, Lottie thinks, to follow him, but Henry Green is clearing his throat and drawing her attention.

She stares at him quizzically, forgetting for a moment why she was so nervous to come here at all, why she was anxious and fidgety.

His expression is calm, so calm that Lottie thinks briefly, deliriously, that he hasn't heard yet.

And then he says, "Martin Church is dead."

Lottie swallows the lump stuck in her throat, forces herself to stand straighter and face this head on, the way her father would. She wishes Jacob hadn't taken off so early, wishes she could have his support, wonders if he might've taken the fall for this if he was.

_It was his fault, after all,_ Lottie thinks, wanting so desperately to look over her shoulder and see if she can find him, see if she can get his attention. _I was content to wait_.

Only she wasn't content to wait; she wanted to strike. She didn't tell Jacob _no_ , she didn't argue. This is as much her fault as his.

Lottie pushes herself to accept that. If she wants to be the equal of the assassins on this train, she needs to take responsibility for her actions and, as much as she does not regret what she did, her actions were unsanctioned by Henry Green.

_Martin Church deserved to die_ , Lottie tells herself, _London is freer for it. But it was not my decision to make_.

Lottie wishes she had this much clarity before, when she was alone with Jacob and he was casting his spell over her, urging her to _just do it_. Maybe then she wouldn't be in this situation right now, feeling like she did when she was a little girl about to get scolded by her father.

_Learn from this mistake_ , he'd tell her. _Learn and remember_.

It doesn't make it any less difficult to face.

"You killed him," Henry continues, drawing it out, and Lottie can only nod wordlessly. "Without any authority to do so."

"I did," she says, around her heart that's lodged in her throat.

She knows how Jacob would be taking this, knows that this would all be water off his back, and he'd be out the door already, whistling and uncaring. But Lottie can't move, can do nothing but bear the brunt of the consequences of her actions, whatever they may be.

Her father would be so disappointed.

Henry Green looks so disappointed.

"I didn't compromise the Brotherhood," Lottie hastens to explain. "I've been watching him for a _week_ , Mr Green. I knew his routines, his patterns, I knew the guard rotation-"

"Yet still you acted without consent."

Lottie has no argument for that. "I did."

"Jacob played a role here, didn't he?"

_Bless Evie Frye_ , Lottie thinks, casting her eyes skyward, _always sweeping to my rescue_.

Lottie nods. "Mr Frye wished for my help eliminating his target. In exchange, he helped me eliminate mine."

"If you had only waited a day," Evie sighs. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Lottie glances between Henry and Evie curiously, confusedly, pondering the significance of Evie's words, wondering on the frustration laced within them.

Henry says, "Two evenings ago, I planned to gift you this." He lifts a mechanism from the table, something similar to what Lottie's seen on Jacob's bracer, beside his hidden blade, and what she can now see attached to Evie's as well.

They look like darts, Lottie thinks, and wouldn't they have been handy a few days-

_Oh_.

Now Lottie's disappointed in herself.

"I think she understands, Mr Green," says Evie quietly and Lottie watches dejectedly as he sets the mechanism in a box and slides it quietly under his arm. He inclines his head to her one last time and leaves the car but Lottie knows it's not over.

Evie looks far from finished.

"I suspect my brother has more to do with this than I think," she says after a pause, "and I will talk to him. For now, I can't recommend you continue collaborating with Jacob."

She knows it's the right decision but that doesn't make it any less _sore_. Jacob's reckless and impertinent and impetuous and wonderful and everything Evie Frye _isn't_ and Lottie enjoys working with him, but he's also part of the reason she's taking a fall right now.

She feels as though she has just taken two giant steps backwards, and any progress she hopes she's made in proving herself seems all for naught now.

She nods to herself, scolding herself, and she's reminding herself why she's here now, why she's always been here: _their approval means nothing to me. Lynch is who I want_.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

"Perhaps it is best for you to stay clear of fieldwork," Evie adds, and doesn't that feel like salt in the wound, Lottie thinks. Even when Evie, seeing her wide-eyes and hurt look, amends, "For now, at least."

_A novice_ , Lottie thinks, giving a curt nod and turning away, retreating to her train car and blinking rapidly to avoid an onslaught of oncoming tears, _that's all I will ever be to them_.


	11. ...And it's Jacob Frye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie and Evie fix Jacob's mess, and Lottie gets revenge.

Jack and Bonny are waiting for her when she makes her way into the dining car, wide awake and tired and _angry_.

She hasn't stopped feeling anything but anger for three days, hasn't said more than four words to anyone for three days.

She thinks it's a blessing that she hasn't seen Jacob Frye in that time, because she's not sure what she'll do if she sees him, especially now that she's stewed on her situation.

_This is his fault_ , Lottie thinks angrily, storming past Jack and Bonny at the bar, grasping the cold neck of the whiskey bottle she's become so familiar with. She downs a swig quickly, furiously, desperate to feel something other than the rage spiralling through and around her.

She slams the bottle down on the bar top when she's taken three long glugs, panting heavily, hair in her eyes and leaning on the bar.

"Better?" asks Jack and he's watching her closely, face etched in surprise, and Lottie's too angry to be embarrassed.

"No," she snaps.

And that's that.

Reality has started to sink in.

She's been _grounded_ , she thinks furiously, and if not for him, if not for his _reckless_ actions, she probably wouldn't be feeling so miserable right now. She probably wouldn't be feeling so angry- at him, at herself, at everything.

" _Some_ one's in a mood," remarks Bonny quietly, into the glass she's lifting to her lips.

Lottie's hands are shaking and the room is swaying slightly. There's a buzz over her thoughts, a film over her eyes, and she's thinking erratically _why am I still here?_

She doesn't understand herself at all. She's embarrassed, angry, a _novice,_ grounded by the people she's trying to help when she could just _leave_. She never really wanted to help them anyway and they, apparently, can manage without what little help she can provide.

_So why am I still_ _here_?

The question has been following her around for days now, ever since she'd retreated to her room those nights ago and _cried_ and lamented her own failure.

Because it's no one's fault but her own, she knows that now. _She_ made the mistake of trusting Jacob, _she_ made the mistake of listening to him when he told her to kill Church before she was due to.

This is all on Lottie, all of it.

And she thinks that's why she's so angry.

"Cabin fever," Lottie mutters, and then, when Bonny looks confused, "I'm not to leave the train."

Jack nods slowly, and realisation dawns on his face. "No wonder Boss 'as been 'n such a temper lately."

_He's_ _in a temper?_ thinks Lottie irately, _what right does he have to be angry? This is_ _his_ _fault!_

She stays silent, takes another long swig from the bottle in her hand, and leaves the car.

* * *

"A _novice_? Why, I've a mind to go up there and give that Mr _Green_ a piece of my mind."

"Don't bother," Lottie grumbles sullenly. "They're right, after all."

Millie has a new washcloth now but it's still ripped at the edges and nearly torn in half. She wonders if all of Millie's washcloths look like that, wonders if she calls them _new_ when they're really far from it. She's pulling at it in her hands, making the tears worse, while she paces the length of the kitchen.

Lottie sighs. "It's not really his fault," she continues. "It was Evie that called me the novice, not him. And _she_ 's the one who grounded me, anyway."

"Who does this woman think she _is_ ," thunders Millie, feet stomping as she passes Lottie again, "to come here, to _our_ city, to Mr _Green_ 's city, and start barking out orders? No, Lottie, this is _unacceptable_!"

"What am I supposed to do?" she shouts back, and the wooden chair she had been sitting on scrapes against the floor as she storms to her feet. "She's right, Millie!"

"She is very much _not_ right, young lady," is the scathing response and Lottie feels like a child again, being scolded by her mother.

Millie's eyes are narrowed and dark and she grasps Lottie's elbow firmly when she tries to turn away from her. Lottie can break her hold easily, can slip away without even trying, but she doesn't. Millie is angrier than Lottie is now and this is all a fresh, open wound for her. Lottie has had time to stew on it, to heal, and while the wound continues to fester, she's accepted that these are the consequences of her actions and she must deal with them.

"You cannot let this _woman_ boss you around, Lottie," Millie says and her voice has lowered, lost its biting edge.

"I know," Lottie mutters, and Millie releases her elbow. "But I have little influence in comparison, Millie. What choice do I have?"

Millie falls into the chair Lottie vacated with a loud and aggravated sigh. She drops her head in her hands, and now that she's stopped pacing and calmed down, Lottie can see just how tired she is.

Lottie takes her hands in her own and forces the older woman to look at her. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she looks twice her age.

"How are you, Millie?" she asks, imploringly. "Truly."

The older woman sighs again and her breath hitches as though she might start crying.

"They're persistent," she says, "I'll give them that."

Lottie drags a chair out and sits across from her friend.

"How long have they been bothering you?"

"Twice a day now, sometimes three."

Millie's voice has dropped to a broken whisper, and Lottie leans back in her chair, one hand over her mouth. The words are tumbling from her mouth before she can think, before she can realise the impossibility of the situation she's found herself in.

"Where are they?" she's demanding. "Bloody Nora's their leader, I know that. Is she the one who's been coming around? I'll find her myself, Millie, I'll-"

"Lottie," Millie interrupts with a watery smile. When Lottie still doesn't stop, she reaches for her hands, calms her, and forces her to sit once again. "What will you do? You've been grounded."

Lottie gives a half-shrug and a pained smile. "I managed to sneak out to see you, didn't I?"

"That's a little different though, isn't it?"

She's so calm now, compared to when Lottie had told her, so _tired_ , and Lottie feels so helpless and angry. She thought the whole point of assassins, of the Brotherhood, was to _help_ people. The one thing she wants to do, the one thing she might one more than avenging her father and killing Lynch, and she is unable to.

"I'll talk to someone," she says, though even to her it sounds ridiculous. "Henry- he could probably help. Or- or Jacob."

Saying his name leaves a bitter taste her mouth and she knows Millie didn't miss the way she stumbled over it, forced herself to even _mention_ him.

Millie shakes her head. "I would not accept their help, Lottie, you know that."

"You'd accept mine?"

"Of course."

"Then why won't you accept it _now_?"

"I won't-" Millie pauses, takes a deep breath, and starts over. "They see you as a novice, Lottie. Helping me will only help further what they think of you - will only help them see you as reckless and brash."

_Like Jacob_ , Lottie thinks, _only he doesn't even_ _care_ _and he's already close to becoming a master assassin._

"I don't care," Lottie snaps, and she hates just how alike Jacob she sounds. "The children-"

"Do you doubt I am capable of looking after them?"

Lottie runs her hands through her hair. She can feel herself losing this battle and she knows how stubborn Millie is. The other woman will not accept her help until she's desperate, and even then she will fight Lottie over it.

"No," Lottie sighs. "I don't. I just-"

"I will not have you lose any more of Mr Green's regard, Lottie," cuts in Millie. "Nor will I have you make an enemy of Miss Frye."

_Too late_ , Lottie almost says, but it wouldn't be true. Evie is not her enemy, not yet, and she knows Millie's right. To go after Bloody Nora, to remove the threat to Millie's children, would only set her progress back even further than it already is.

Lottie's sigh is frustrated as she readies herself to leave.

"Alright, you win," she grumbles. "But remember what I said. I don't care if I'm still grounded, if something happens, send for me." 

* * *

The first time she sees Jacob again she's lounging on an armchair with an open book lying forgotten in her lap. She's long given up on reading and it's far too dark now for her to try. The gaslights flicker around her and she hears him before she sees him.

She looks over just as his eyes trail over her, meets his gaze just in time to see him swallow, to see his eyes widen in what she thinks might be some semblance of guilt. Evie looks over her shoulder, glances between the two of them curiously but doesn't say a word.

Lottie gets to her feet, snapping the book shut and pointedly ignoring Jacob.

"I'm off to bed," she says aloud. "Good night, Miss Frye."

She doesn't linger to see if Jacob's offended. 

* * *

The letter she receives from Millie a week later is worrisome in itself, what it mentions in the woman's messy scrawl only sets Lottie on edge.

Lambeth Asylum is eerily quiet and all the windows are closed, all the doors are locked. It's nothing like the building she'd seen two weeks ago, when she and Jacob had come here to put an end to the Soothing Syrup.

She knows why there's been such a sudden change, knows why there's been so much trouble lately: _Jacob Frye_.

Lottie hates that she's just as to blame as he is, hates that her support in his ridiculous plan is what set everything in motion.

In a way, she thinks, it's partly her fault that Millie's children are getting sick.

No one answers when she knocks, no matter how desperate she does. She tries shouting and gets nowhere fast, and she's sitting on the steps of the asylum with her head in her hands when a familiar voice pipes up.

"Miss Crawley?"

Clara stands in front of her, all messy pigtails and intelligent eyes, but she looks sickly and pale. Lottie's on her feet, a cool hand pressed against Clara's forehead before she knows where she's at, recalling the words Millie had written in her letter.

"Are you feeling well, Clara?" she queries with a frown.

She's not sure if there's actually anything wrong with Clara, or if she's just on edge after Millie's letter, but the girl looks tired and Lottie's reaching out to help her before she can collapse.

Clara refuses the help and instead Lottie watches her stumble up the steps to the door and lean heavily on the wall nearby.

"I'm fine," she mumbles but it's clearly a lie.

Lottie has a hand on her back, rubbing gentle, soothing circles, hoping that it helps and remembering that it's what her mother used to do for her when she was sick as a little girl. Clara seems to relax somewhat, anyway, but she's still leaning far too heavily against the stone wall, and Lottie's sure the girl might have a fever.

"Lottie?"

She glances over her shoulder quickly, tries to ignore the dread pooling in her stomach at being caught, but Evie's eyes drift past her to Clara and Lottie's sure she makes the same deduction.

Instead, she says to Lottie, "Aren't you supposed to be at the train?"

"I'm running an errand for a friend," she answers evasively and she doesn't miss the way Evie's eyes narrow. Lottie feels the need to add, "It's not Jacob."

Evie nods slowly, seeming content.

"Miss Frye," Clara says from beside Lottie. She pushes off the wall, tries to stand straight but Lottie's sure she's going to collapse at any moment. "What a pleasant surprise."

Every word she says sounds strained, breathless, and Lottie wonders just how far Clara's travelled to get here.

"Hello Clara," Evie greets gently. "I was just going to check on Lambeth since the asylum's closing. What brings you here?"

Her eyes dart to Lottie too and she gets the feeling Evie is going to grill her for more information later. Lottie's not sure she wants to tell Evie about Millie, not sure she trusts the other woman enough with the information. Evie obviously doesn't trust her very much, if her confining Lottie to the train, questioning her within seconds of meeting her only a few moments ago, are anything to go by.

Lottie wants to be angry about it – but trust goes both ways.

She knows exactly what her father would expect from her in this situation, knows exactly how her father would expect her to act, what to say.

_If I want them to trust me_ , Lottie thinks dismally, _I need to start trusting them too._

The thought brings a sigh from her lips, quiet and distraught, and it's been near a month and Lottie hasn't been able to open up to anyone about her father or Millie or _Lynch_.

_One thing at a time_ , she thinks, only half listening to Evie and Clara's conversation. _I don't have to tell them everything at once_.

" _Clara_!"

Her eyes are drawn to Clara first, falling forward, then to Evie, scooping the young girl into her arms and shouting angrily for a doctor, someone to _help_. No one answers her and Lottie thinks the deserted courtyard is mocking them.

Then the doors swing open behind them and there's a woman standing there. She has a kind face and a gentle demeanour, Lottie thinks, and she's ushering them inside quickly, guiding them to the table where Evie sets Clara down.

"She simply collapsed?" the woman asks, striding to Clara's side and feeling her forehead. Lottie listens to Evie answering the woman, all the while thinking that the asylum shouldn't be this empty, that there shouldn't be only one _woman_.

They're lucky, she thinks, glancing up the empty hallway, recalling how she and Jacob snuck through these very halls only a couple of weeks ago. What if the woman hadn't heard them at all?

"-was murdered, the district has been overrun with counterfeit tonics."

Clara gives a quiet, shuddering gasp, and Lottie shares a worried look with Evie, a silent agreement between the two of them to fix Jacob's _mess_.

"This one needs proper care," says the woman, drawing Evie and Lottie's eyes, "but without the appropriate medication, she and the others will quickly decline."

Lottie thinks of little Daniel, of Bethany, of the children in Millie's care, and resolves to not let that happen. She steps forward to stand beside Evie and she's grateful she hasn't been sent away yet, back to the train to continue her punishment.

"What do you need?"

"I need supplies," the woman says gently, calmly, looking between the two women, "plenty of them. And medicine. Some of the less common ingredients are being stolen and sold at auction."

"We'd be happy to help," says Evie with only a quick glance to Lottie to confirm.

Lottie's nod is curt and she and Evie share a worried look at Clara's shivering form one last time before the woman is handing them a list and asking their names.

"Frye. Evie Frye," says the other assassin, "and this is Charlotte Crawley."

The woman's smile is bright and hopeful as she introduces, "I'm Miss Nightingale. How do you do?" She spares another glance at Clara and adds, "Please hurry. We don't have much time." 

* * *

Working with Evie Frye is the opposite of what Lottie expects, and she's not sure if it's because she misjudged the other woman or if it's because Miss Frye is under pressure and doesn't have the time to formulate a plan.

They manage to steal back the supplies from Blighters who want to steal them, and Lottie's terrified that she's going to fall off the cart with Evie's hectic driving, but they make back to the asylum not a moment too soon, clambering down and hurrying inside with the tonics.

Clara doesn't look any better, and Miss Nightingale is chewing at her lip worriedly when they arrive, heels clicking softly on the marble floors.

Lottie's holding her breath and she thinks she's not going to breathe properly ever again until she hears Miss Nightingale say that Clara will recover and the medication can be distributed to the district again.

Lottie lingers at the door as Evie hands over the medication, as Clara tries to sit up and return to Babylon Alley. Evie places a gentle hand on her shoulder, looks over to Lottie briefly, her smile small and kind, and Lottie thinks for a moment that perhaps Evie Frye isn't so bad after all.

Her opinion of her only grows as they're walking back to the train, as Evie forgoes mentioning Lottie's transgression in favour of saying, "I can't believe we met the Lady with the Lamp. Wait until Jacob hears about this."

Lottie knows that Evie's probing gently about her presence at the asylum, and her thoughts from earlier are returning, hovering at the forefront of her mind; _trust goes both ways_.

She sighs, casts her gaze to the sky briefly for courage, and says, "I have a friend who runs an orphanage. The children are sick so..."

"You left the train to get medicine?"

Lottie nods, once. "I'm not sorry."

"I'm not asking you to be," replies Evie. "Lottie, we're not- You don't have to sneak out of the train whenever you need to go somewhere, we just can't have you..."

She trails off, but Lottie doesn't need her to finish her sentence. They can't have her performing assassinations and, seeing the state of Lambeth, Lottie can't blame them.

This is partly her fault, she thinks, she and Jacob are to blame for the city's medical care descending into anarchy. She knows that now, like she knows that Jacob has been nowhere in sight, nowhere to be found, uncaring that his actions have caused such disarray.

"I understand," Lottie says quietly, "and I will work to earn back your trust in my capabilities, Miss Frye. I promise."

Evie nods. "I know you will." 

* * *

Jack and Bonny are waiting for Lottie like they usually are, empty glasses lying on the bar in front of them.

Lottie would find the whole situation amusing if not for the man sitting beside them, smiling and joking, a half empty glass of amber liquid set in front of him.

Lottie nearly walks out, nearly decides that a night of restless tossing and turning is far better than dealing with Jacob Frye for five minutes, but he glances up and meets her eyes and her decision is made.

"Lottie," Jacob calls, lips pulled up in a grin. He's completely unaware of the danger he's in as she's storming towards him, or he's too drunk to care. "Come and 'ave a drink with us, love!"

Later Lottie will take great pleasure in the way Jacob tumbled from the bar stool, the way his Rooks scrambled to get out of the way as their boss crumpled in a heap on the floor, cradling his jaw and staring up at her in surprised disbelief.

But at that moment, she settles for reaching behind the bar for her bottle of whiskey and storming from the dining car as quickly as she'd entered, ignoring the cat calls and whistles, ignoring the Rooks helping their Boss to his feet, and definitely ignoring the angry glower the man himself shoots at her back.


	12. Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie's just a little angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah, sorry for the long absence. I keep forgetting to post the chapters here as well and I feel bad about the blog because I'm terribly inadequate at keeping to schedules. I'm a mess. Sorry guys *hides*  
> Anyhoo - enjoy!

"I should not be as proud of you as I am," Millie tells her days later, when Lottie feels calmer and not quite so murderous.

Lottie's grin is smug but bitter and while she can still remember in vivid detail the way Jacob had tumbled to the floor on the train, guilt tugs at her insides.

She's avoiding him, too embarrassed by her actions and too angry, but then she thinks he might be avoiding her too.

She wonders if he's ashamed like she is, or if he's worried she might do something worse if they meet again before she's ready.

_Or_ , she thinks, recalling the burning glare he'd sent her as she stalked from the dining car that night, _perhaps he's worried_ _he_ _might do something worse_.

Outside Lottie can hear the children, playing once more in the bright light of a late spring sun. Millie seems at ease but Lottie sees the way her eyes dart to the window and linger there, like she's waiting for something.

Lottie knows exactly what she's waiting for; carriages of Blighters, come to alight with her children, to take them from Millie from right under her nose. It's difficult for her, Lottie knows, to pretend that everything's okay in front of the children, to allow them to run and play in the garden and on the street, in the back alleys, when at any moment they could be swept away and forced into work.

Millie's scared but Lottie admires her bravery.

It serves to draw her thoughts to a darker place, to a sombre part of her mind; to _Lynch_.

Lottie hasn't even tried to locate him, hasn't even started. She convinces herself there's still time for that whenever she thinks she might start, convinces herself that she should help Evie and Henry with something else first.

She wants to believe that it's just procrastination, or that she genuinely wants to help Evie and Henry in their hunt for the Piece of Eden. There was a time when she wanted to believe that she was honing her skills, taking down targets with Jacob, practicing her aim and air assassination techniques.

But deep down she's knows that's not it. She has no interest in the search for the Piece of Eden and finds herself more often than not falling asleep with one of Evie's books lying open on her lap. She can't keep her eyes open long enough to provide anything even remotely helpful to Evie's search when research isn't exciting enough to keep her eyes open.

It must be irony, Lottie thinks, that the only time she can sleep is when she's too bored to do anything else.

Lottie still isn't convinced that the Piece of Eden, if there even is one in London, even _exists_. For all she knows, Evie and Miss Thorne – Lottie's heard the name thrown around by Evie and Henry, seen it scribbled on pages on the desk and there's a portrait on the Templar wall of a woman with a strict face and high cheekbones beneath angry, narrowed eyes – could be following each other on a wild goose chase, following clue after clue that lead nowhere.

_No_ , Lottie thinks, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, _Jacob has it right._

Eliminating Templar influence and control is a much better use of their time than combing through years and years of research that never led anyone anywhere.

But that's not an option for Lottie, not anymore, not when she's too angry at Jacob to even look at him, not when he's screwed things up for her so much that Henry won't even let her hear about potential Templar targets.

Lottie's completely out of the loop and it's all _his fault_.

(She ignores the small voice in the back of her head that pipes up that it's not _really_ , that she's to blame as well, because she's too angry and it's too easy to blame someone else than admit to herself, _again_ , that she's at fault too.)

She feels like knocking her head against the table. Every time she thinks about him now, an insensible hatred fills her from head to toe and try as she might, she can't seem to make it go away.

_He's so brash_ , she thinks irately, _and reckless, and impetuous and_ _awful_.

He leaps in and doesn't consider the consequences of his actions, claims to be fighting for the people but doesn't realise the very consequences he fails to consider almost _always_ puts them at risk.

She's only angry because of Millie and the children, she knows this, angry because if she hadn't been swept up by him she might have realised sooner the danger the people would be in by eliminating Elliotson so soon.

Little Daniel's pale face haunts her, his bone shattering coughs that wracked his body. She'd nearly been too late.

To stay by a little boy's bedside and lose sleep ensuring he gets through the night only to return to the train and find the man responsible _drunk off his arse_ -

Lottie clenches her fist.

_I should have hit him harder_.

* * *

 

Evie is nowhere in sight when Lottie returns to the train.

She can hear shouts and cheers in the dining car, and a large man in a green Rooks shirt is staring unabashedly at her from the door. She doesn't hear Jacob Frye's voice, doesn't see that ridiculous flat cap when she glances in, but she doesn't linger any longer than she has to.

That Rook is still staring at her.

She needs to pass him to get to her car, to retire for the night and wait for activity in the bar to die down so she can get her nightly drink with Jack and Bonny.

She can hear the Rook's huffing breaths when she passes him, far too close for comfort but unwilling to show just how unnerved she is.

He doesn't move until she's nearly passed him and he moves fast as lightning, hand tightening around her elbow like a vice and she knows she's going to have bruises if she doesn't do something. She's shocked only for a moment and then anger sets in, boiling hot, bubbling under the skin, and she meets her narrowed gaze head on with a furious one of her own.

"Hit the boss again," snarls the brute and Lottie doesn't flinch when he clenches his hand around her elbow, "and I'll hit you."

"You can try," she snaps back fearlessly, wrenching her arm from his grip. "I'll have your throat slit before you even get close."

Anger makes people do stupid things.

The brute pulls her back, shoves her to the wall, and Lottie hears the sounds in the dining car hushing, laughs echoing out into nothing.

Lottie can hear her father's voice in her head, reprimanding, amused, and she recalls the time she'd gotten into a fight with the little boy in the market. He'd thrown mud at her dress after she'd retaliated to something he said – she can't remember what it is now, it seems too irrelevant to remember it in these circumstances – but she'd stared at the dollop of brown on her _new_ lilac dress and her gaze had gone red.

She'd thrown mud back at him, her aim flawless even as a child – what happened, she thinks, that her aim is so rusty now when she'd barely had any training then – and how was she supposed to know she'd picked up a rock too?

_You made him feel stupid, Lottie_ , her father had scolded, after hearing the story. _People react in nasty ways when they're made to feel stupid._

The brute's hold on her doesn't restrict her breathing; it's intended only to intimidate. She imagines it's something Jacob has taught him, a way of scaring information out of unsuspecting Blighters.

But Lottie's not an unsuspecting Blighter. Lottie's an _assassin_ and a woman and she's _furious_.

Her reaction is lightning quick and she doesn't realise how close she is to killing him until there are whistles and jeers from Rooks standing around them.

Her hidden blade is at the brute's throat and his eyes are round like saucers, looking between the gleaming metal and her intense gaze, her spare hand that has his arm wrenched behind his back.

His breathing is fast, chest heaving like a frightened rabbit, and Lottie releases him slowly, finding strange satisfaction in the way this large man, easily two heads taller than she, stumbles away from her hastily, tripping over his feet.

When she turns, Jacob is standing in the doorway and she's not sure if the lingering, ghost of a smile is because of what he saw moments before, or from something else.

He's watching her closely, standing in her way, and she knows he's doing it on purpose, knows that _he knows_ she has to pass him to get to her car.

The Rooks around them are silent, watching them with closely guarded gazes, waiting, and Lottie's not sure what she'll do if she punches him and the Rooks all come to their boss's aid _at once_.

_I'm not that good_ , she thinks, _I know when I'm outplayed_.

The brute from before has disappeared from sight and there's no sound in the car save for her boots on the soft carpet as she walks towards Jacob, as she stops in front of his body that blocks the door.

He studies her and she studies him – hungrily, she hates to admit, because while she's still angry, while she still wishes she'd hit him a _hell_ of a lot _harder_ , she's human, and he's _Jacob Frye_.

He's got some fresh bruises on his jaw and cheekbone and there are fresh scabs on his knuckles. He's been at the fight clubs, Lottie thinks, _a lot_ , apparently, and she's sure he probably has more scars hidden underneath his layers of clothing.

Her thoughts become side-tracked; _just how many scars does he have? Do they all have stories? Or are they just the consequences of his ill-thought out plans?_

_Consequences_ \- the words draws her out of her haze and she swallows, steels her spine, remembers everything; Jacob Frye is a problem and she needs to distance herself before she hits him again.

"Control your dogs," she tells him shortly.

The Rooks are still silent behind them, watching with baited breath, and Lottie can feel the tension in the air. She's waiting for Jacob to react, waiting for him to retaliate.

Instead, he steps aside and lets her pass.

She refuses to let her surprise show on her face, keeps her face carefully neutral, and strides by him.

She nearly slips up when his hand comes up to grab her elbow gently, halting her in her place and her breath catches in her throat.

"Get some sleep, Lottie," he murmurs, close to her ear, so close only she can hear his words.

Then he lets her go.


	13. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie's given a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My motivation to get all the chapters I've actually written posted has been revitalised! Expect a fair bit of updates over the next few days!

Lottie's not sure what she's supposed to be doing.

There's a book open in her lap – the same book she's supposed to have been reading for the past week; Evie _knows_ she hasn't been reading it – but it's hard to focus when Evie keeps muttering to herself in the corner, pouring over a battered notebook she and Jacob retrieved a few nights ago.

That wound still stings; that Evie would allow Jacob to accompany her and not Lottie when she's the one who's been helping her lately, _not him_.

She's angry but it doesn't linger, it can't, not when she's confused and her thoughts are a jumbled mess.

She wants to be angry, wants to cling to the familiar bitterness that's been tugging at her for the past month whenever she thinks of the man but then she remembers the way he'd spoken to her, the gentle tone of his voice when he'd stopped her leaving the dining car a few nights ago.

_He can't be feeling guilty_ , she reasons with herself, snapping the book shut and all but throwing it on the table beside her. Evie barely glances up. _He's_ _Jacob Frye_ _. He doesn't feel guilt._

She's avoiding him for entirely different reasons now; before she'd been angry and ashamed and embarrassed. Now she's confused and wary and unsure.

_Distraction_ , she thinks, getting slowly to her feet. _I need a distraction_.

"Anything interesting?" She quizzes Evie, coming to stand at her shoulder.

Evie shakes her head minutely. "I'm glad I was able to retrieve the notebook and keep it from Miss Thorne's hands but we've gained so little. If Jacob hadn't interfered, we'd have a great deal more information to sift through."

_Jacob_ , Lottie thinks, gritting her teeth. _Even when I don't want to think about him, he somehow finds his way into conversation_.

Bitterly, Lottie says, "Perhaps next time you'll consider taking me. The outcome might have been very different if you had."

Evie's surprised gaze makes Lottie wish she hadn't said anything, makes her wish she'd kept her mouth shut about the whole thing. But then Evie huffs a laugh and her lips spread into an amused smile.

"Lottie, tell me you're not jealous," she says around a laugh.

"Of course not," Lottie scoffs. "I only mean that we might have been able to save more if I'd been accompanying you instead of Mr Frye."

Evie's chuckles dwindle away and she nods slowly, considering.

Finally, she shrugs half-heartedly and returns to pouring over the contents of the notebook.

"I thought you had no interest in the Piece of Eden."

"I don't," Lottie says, leaning against the table, "but I know it's important. I wouldn't jeopardise a mission because of how I feel."

The words leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

"If only my brother was so noble."

"Oh, dear sister, I am offended you think so little of me," Jacob says from the doorway, wearing that infuriating smirk and standing with his arms across his chest.

Lottie rolls her eyes and pointedly refuses to look at him.

"I have some errands to run," she tells Evie, "I'll be back late."

Evie nods, once. "Be careful."

Lottie doesn't look back as she exits the train, hopping from the car and to the tracks below. She's proud of herself for remaining upright, for keeping her feet and not stumbling her landing. The train is just passing through Whitechapel, she notes, trying to decide what to do with the rest of her afternoon.

She's raising her arm when she hears him shouting, aiming for the rooftop and preparing to grapple across. She wants to pretend she doesn't hear him but that becomes impossible when he blocks her path, his large hand forcibly lowering her bracer and refusing to release her.

"Lottie," he says, and then, when she doesn't respond, "Lottie, come _on._ "

"Did you want something, Mr Frye?" Her voice is clipped, nothing like how she used to speak to him, all those weeks ago when they were working together, killing together, not-planning together.

He releases her then, drawing his hand back and Lottie still refuses to look at him, staring blankly at the London skyline with narrowed eyes. Her hand clenches and unclenches at her side, the only way she can stop herself from whirling on him and punching him out.

"And here was me thinking you'd stopped being angry with me," he quips.

He's trying to get a rise out of her, she thinks, and she wonders what's going through his head. Does he think her anger is better than her indifference? Would he rather she hit him again than ignore him completely?

She'd be happy to oblige, she thinks, if it wouldn't make him so happy.

"Is that all?" she demands, tonelessly now, still staring at nothing and waiting for him to let her go.

Why is it so hard for him now, she wonders, when he'd been so willing those couple of nights back, after she'd proved herself to his Rooks – because that's all she can really call it, considering the wary glances she receives now, the claps on the back from the braver ones who see her worth and skill.

"No," Jacob snaps, and _good_ , she thinks, _he's getting riled up_. She feels better knowing she's not the only one angry about everything, that she's not the only one _feeling_ something. "No, Lottie, we are _not_ done."

"Don't call me that," she snaps before thinking. "You don't get to call me that anymore."

"You're joking," Jacob breathes disbelievingly. "You make a mistake and get punished and blame _me_ –"

" _I_ made a mistake?" Lottie echoes and finally, _finally_ , she faces him, scowling and murderous and wondering how long it will take Evie to realise she's murdered him. " _I_ made a mistake?"

"Good, you're looking at me," he says, trying to backtrack. "Look, Lottie, I _know_ I –"

"Enough," Lottie bites, "I don't want to talk to you, Mr Frye."

"Lottie –"

" _Don't_ call me that –"

"Just let me speak," he says loudly, grabbing her arm when she tries to turn away. She can hear the anger touching his words and she can see the clenching and unclenching of his own fists. He's grinding his teeth together, glaring at her and she can feel the heated tension between them.

She wants to punch him again.

"What?" she demands, cutting him off before he can speak. "What can you possibly have to say?"

"Lottie –"

"I told you to _stop_ –"

His grip on her arm loosens, just enough for her to slip away, get some space between them, enough for her to gain some control over her body before she hits him again. His expression is desperate and he holds his arms out, reaching for her, like he wants to grabs her arms again and stop her from leaving.

"Lottie," he says again, quietly, and she's mesmerised by his lips, by the way he says her name.

She turns away before she can do something stupid like cave.

"I need more time," she tells him. She won't look at him. "Just give me more time."

"I've given you a month," he says, and Lottie's annoyed by his genuinely perplexed expression. "Isn't that enough?"

She shoots him a withered glare but there's no real heat behind it. She's tired now, exhausted, and she wants nothing more than to head back to the train and to the whiskey bottle she's hiding under her mattress. She hasn't needed it that much the past few nights, has felt some reprieve from the haunting nightmares that wake her.

She wants the bottle for an entirely different reason now, a different, more self-loathing and self-pitying reason.

"I miss you," Jacob tells her honestly.

"You don't know me," she responds.

Because he doesn't, not really, not in the way she thinks he wants to. He sees her as a budding initiate of their order with a father like his own. He sees her as an ally to the Brotherhood's cause when really she never wanted this in the first place.

He wouldn't miss her if he really knew her.

"Just –" she pauses, mouths the words before actually saying them aloud. "Just leave me alone, Jacob."

He lets her go. 

* * *

Each throwing knife from her belt is embedded in the wall, lined up neatly, perfectly, and deep down, Lottie knows she's _ready_. This time, she won't miss the target. This time she won't hit the wall at their heads and if she does, it will be purposefully done.

She's _ready_.

"Now if only Mr Green would see that too," she mutters to herself, nursing her half-empty bottle of whiskey at her side. She's hasn't drunk from it yet, not since a couple of nights ago, after returning to the train car feeling disheartened and dismal.

She thinks that's why there's so little left in the bottle because she can't remember drinking _nearly_ that much.

She remembers feeling sorry for herself, wondering – again, for what she thinks must be the thousandth time – why she's still here at all, why she hasn't taken her leave and decided that it's _time._ She remembers her drunken mind deciding what she always decides when she thinks like that; that there's time, that she's _not_ ready for Lynch, that she still has much to learn.

Now she's not so sure.

Before she might have stayed and ignored Jacob, avoided him until Evie saw her usefulness and reinstated her to field work once more. The more she drunk from that bottle, the more she realised that's never going to happen, and she's not sure she can remain confined in the train for much longer.

Not in such close proximity to Jacob, not after that _revelation_ of his from the other day.

_I miss you_ , he'd told her, like he'd rehearsed it over and over again, genuine and _real_ and everything Lottie hadn't thought Jacob would say.

And she'd been so thrown off by him, so angry and bitter, that she hadn't even tried to return his words.

She hasn't seen him since.

She doesn't know why that hurts so much.

_It's what you wanted_ , she thinks angrily, tugging another knife from her belt. _You told him to leave you alone and he_ _did_.

Lottie throws another knife at the wall, hears the satisfying _thunk_ as it joins the others, and slides her bottle of whiskey back in its hiding place under her mattress. This time she's leaving, she thinks, and the bottle of whiskey under her mattress will be the only thing left behind in her lonely train car.

_This time_ , she tells herself, winding her hair into a knot. _I can't stay here, not anymore._

She's lacing up her boots when she hears the soft knock at her door and she's struck by a sense of déjà vu suddenly as Henry Green pops his head in.

Her face lights up with a smile she's not sure he deserves, momentarily forgetting that the last time she saw him he was angry and frustrated – with _her_. But she hasn't seen him in so long and she's sure that he's been avoiding her the same way she'd been avoiding Jacob.

"Miss Crawley," Henry greets gently, softly. She watches his eyes survey her neat line of throwing knives in the wall. Lottie swallows and hastily gets to her feet, tugging them free one at a time and sliding them back into her belt. Her hands are shaking and there's an embarrassed flush heating her cheeks.

"I- I was just practicing," she says, her back to him.

She risks a glance over her shoulder to see him nodding, and she thinks he's considering something but she can't be sure.

"It is good that you haven't lost your willingness to practice," he says and he's _smiling_. Lottie can't decide if she's supposed to be relieved by that smile or unnerved. "Miss Frye and I weren't sure you'd..."

Lottie glances at the carpeted floor of her car – the carpet's brand new, courtesy of Agnes, and Lottie's only just noticing this now – and rubs the back of her neck. Henry doesn't have to finish that sentence for Lottie to know where he was going with it.

Henry and Evie weren't sure Lottie would be willing to continue on this path, to continue the training her father started her on so long ago.

Lottie smiles. "How can I be of assistance, Mr Green?"

Henry reaches inside his shirt and draws out a sheet of paper, folded in half. The scenario is too alike the last time, when he'd handed her his sketch of Martin Church and given his orders.

_This can't be happening_ , she thinks, taking the thin sheet of paper from his hand.

She unfolds the page and sees a woman, older, with a round face and hair like coal. She has high cheekbones and a square jaw and her lips are pulled back in a wicked grin that Lottie's starting to associate with the female Templars in London.

"Myrtle Platt," Henry tells her. "She oversees a warehouse in Southwark, beside the Thames. You are to find her and eliminate her."

Lottie nearly chokes. Their conversation had seemed so familiar up until that point. With Church, it had been reconnaissance only, and, as Henry had told her, the _eliminating_ would come "later". What was different about Platt?

"Platt oversees a warehouse stocked with explosives and weaponry for the Blighters," Henry answers. "It is imperative that she be dealt with as soon as possible."

Lottie clears her throat and folds the paper in half once more, tucking it inside her jacket pocket. She swallows, staring hard at the thin marks lining the wall where the knives used to be.

"What's changed?" she asks, "I thought I wasn't to eliminate any targets?"

"Miss Frye and I think it's time you were given another chance," Henry tells her, with a soft, encouraging smile. "It's time for you to prove your capabilities."

It's almost too good to be true, Lottie thinks, that she's being given this chance like this, right when she'd decided it was time to go. She can't pass it up, not now, not like this, not when she's waited near two months for them to trust her again.

_Lynch can wait_ , she tells herself again but it seems almost like she's convincing herself instead.

It must be fate, she thinks, that every time she decides it's time to leave, something happens that has her rethinking her strategy, that has her waiting just that little bit longer until something else crops up and has her doubting all over again.

"I won't let you down," she tells Henry.

And she means it.


	14. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie performs her first assassination in months, Jacob gets a new outfit, and Lottie gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, probably one of my fav chapters that I've written for this fic. I'm also slowly managing to catch up with the chapter's I've written on wattpad!

Lottie hears her first; her voice a screeching, angry sound, like chalk scraped against a blackboard.

At her feet lies a dead Blighter, bleeding from a knife wound at his throat, courtesy of her hidden blade. His eyes stare unseeing at the doorway in which she entered and pacing on the walkway under her and directly below a cluster of barrels is her target.

The red Templar cross emblazoned on the white fabric of her shoulder sways as she walks, pacing, shouting, paying the waiting assassin above her no heed.

Lottie's ducked behind a crate of explosives and printed on every side is the red clenched fist of the Blighters. She wonders what will happen to the crates after she deals with Platt, and entertains the thought of finding some unsuspecting Rook after she's finished here – of leading them into the warehouse and collecting the spoils with them.

_I don't want Jacob to think I've forgiven him yet_ , she thinks almost instantly afterward, watching Platt pace once more under the barrels overhead.

Lottie's fingers brush the hilt of a throwing knife, lining up the shot in her mind, imagining the barrels tumbling free. It will look like an accident, she thinks, and the police – if any of these damned Blighters decide to take that course of action – will treat it as such.

Abberline knows the fights they're trying to win. He'll treat it as an accident.

She slides a throwing knife from her belt, silently, expertly, eyes following Platt's erratic pacing, her stomping form as she screams at the Blighters below.

Lottie's knife strikes true, and pride swells in her chest as the barrels tumble to the floor, crushing Platt under their weight. Her incessant yelling is a cut off with a shocked squawk and Lottie watches until the barrels stop rolling, until all she can see of Myrtle Platt is her hand, reaching out from under the wood.

Lottie lingers long enough to hear a Blighter declare the Templar dead before she sneaks back out the way she came, clambering onto the roof.

She should just go. She should fire her rope launcher at the building across from her and disappear before things get complicated.

But the explosives and weapons crates rise to the forefront of her mind before she can, tempting her. The stock in the warehouse would be of great benefit to the assassins, to the Rooks, to Henry and Evie and –

Lottie sighs irately, casting a glance back at the doorway she entered through. She can hear the Blighters inside, shouting amongst each other. Now would be the perfect time to strike, _now_ would be the perfect time to take the warehouse for themselves.

She spies the haystack on the ground below and beside it, loitering as inconspicuously as possible – which is to say not at _all_ – are three Rooks. Their green jackets make them stand out like sore thumbs.

Lottie leaps.

" _Bloody 'ell_!"

Lottie thinks it must be part and parcel to have a flair for the dramatics if you're an assassin, because she's infinitely proud of that reaction as she slides from the hay, brushing her clothes down and picking out stray strands from her hair.

"Morning," she greets, smiling sweetly.

One of the Rooks, a large, gruff looking man with an over abundancy of chest hair poking out from the neck of his shirt, says, "Afternoon."

"Afternoon," Lottie corrects herself, inclining her head. She gestures nonchalantly to warehouse, where Blighters in red coats come sprinting out, scrambling onto carriages and fleeing. "What are you doing, loitering here like a bad smell?"

Another Rook, a thin and scrawny woman with a tattoo of a pistol wrapped in thorns on her arm, says, "Mr Frye asked us to keep an eye out. See if anythin' suspicious 'appens."

Lottie nods. "Fine job you're doing."

"Eh?"

"The contents of that warehouse are yours for the taking," she informs them, voice lowered, ever wary of who might be listening.

The gruff Rook scoffs. "Aye," he says, "supposin' they are. Why should we trust you?"

"Aye," agrees the other Rook, the one yet to speak, with a thick grey beard and a pistol on his belt. "Who's t' say yer not trickin' us? We might walk in t' that warehouse and right in t' an ambush."

Lottie sighs, "Oh, Frye really knows how to pick them, doesn't he?" She rubs her hand down her face, half turns away. "Myrtle Platt is dead," she informs the three Rooks. "Gather your friends and take that warehouse before more Blighters arrive."

"Platt's dead?" echoes the woman, wide-eyed, looking between Lottie and the warehouse incredulously. "When the bloody 'ell did 'at 'appen?"

"Oh, about five minutes ago?" Lottie shrugs. "Hard to tell."

She raises her arm and fires her rope launcher, vaulting into the sky amongst the three Rooks shouts of "inform the boss!" and "find the lads, we 'ave to do this now!"

She can't identify the feeling in her gut as she watches a dozen or so Rooks storm the warehouse.

She's pretty sure it has something to do with the broad smile spread across her face.

* * *

Lottie fiddles with her new pistol, still uneasy around the weapon and unsure if it's something she'll actually use but grateful for the new addition to her arsenal.

"I'm sure you'll find it very useful," Evie tells her, reading her mind with those keen eyes of hers and clapping her gently on the arm. "A fine job indeed."

"Thank you," Lottie replies, feeling a little bashful.

"I hadn't expected you to use the barrels," Henry adds from the desk, nodding his head, impressed. Lottie finds she likes that expression on his face. "A fine touch."

"Mr Green, please," Lottie says with a joking smirk. "Miss Platt had an _accident_."

"Yes, well," Evie says, leaning against the wood of the desk. Her smirk matches Lottie's own. "Dreadful things happen to dreadful people."

"Truer words have never been spoken, Miss Frye."

Henry excuses himself shortly thereafter (something about unpacking the rest of the books he's taken with him from his shop) and Lottie and Evie are left alone in comfortable silence.

"Jacob was very happy to hear of Platt's elimination," Evie says conversationally. "Of course, the Rooks presence in that area has been greatly enhanced by her death, so he would be."

Lottie scoffs but has nothing to add to Evie's announcement. She notes the surprise on the other woman's face, the rising of her eyebrows at the annoyed sound Lottie makes.

"I assumed you were aware of the events that followed Platt's demise," Evie adds cautiously and Lottie needs to move, needs to distract herself from this conversation.

She starts pacing the train car; from Evie's desk to the assassination wall and back again, over and over.

"I am," Lottie tells Evie, passing the safe, almost knocking over the cane leaning against the wall. "I was the one who told the Rooks about the warehouse."

Evie looks delighted with this new information and her lips tilt upwards in a smirk.

"Oh, really," she probes with deceptive aloofness, turning her back on Lottie and sorting through the scattered papers on her desk. "I also assumed that you and Jacob were not talking."

"We're not," Lottie says quickly, halting mid-step and glancing over her shoulder at Evie. "My choice to inform the Rooks of the contents of the warehouse has nothing to do with Mr Frye."

"Uh-huh," hums Evie.

Lottie whirls to face her. "It doesn't!"

"So it has nothing to do with an attempt to mend broken fences between the two of you?"

"I'm not the one who needs to do the mending, Miss Frye."

Evie inclines her head gently. "That is true. I also know you've yet to apologise for setting my brother heels over head in front of his Rooks." At Lottie's alarmed stare, she adds, "I know everything, Miss Crawley."

Lottie doesn't doubt it for a second. It hadn't taken Evie long to think that leaving Jacob unattended for too long could be disastrous – after all, without her, Lottie's not sure medicinal care in the city could have been re-established.

And Lottie hates that Evie's right – as she always seems to be. Lottie hasn't apologised for that yet and she's not sure she wants to. Jacob hasn't apologised to her either and she thinks it's highly unlikely that he'll want to.

_I miss you_ , he'd told her, like that would solve everything.

The words had made her heart skip a beat and she'd been so close to crumbling under them, to turning and forgiving him for everything.

But _I miss you_ is not _I'm sorry_ and just because he misses her doesn't mean his transgressions can be forgotten so soon.

"Miss Crawley," Evie says kindly. "I know my brother can be... _difficult._ I've not an idea what he was thinking drawing you into his schemes but –"

"I appreciate what you are trying to do," Lottie cuts in, "but Mr Frye and I are fine, Miss Frye."

"The two of you are acting like children," Evie huffs.

Lottie takes a deep breath. "I won't apologise, Miss Frye," she says, fighting to keep her voice controlled. "While my actions towards him may have been... _foolish_ , I feel they were justified. His actions caused anarchy and –"

"Are you so quick to forget your own involvement?"

Lottie hesitates, swallowing the lump beginning to rise in her throat. She stares at the carpeted flooring, struggling to gather her racing thoughts. She tugs at the hems of her sleeves and bites at her bottom lip. She has nothing to say to that; her quick tongue that has aided her through this conversation is failing.

"I know your anger," Evie says quietly, watching her with eyes drowning with understanding. "I often feel the same way dealing with Jacob."

Lottie sighs, long and slow and _tired_. She runs her hand down her face, considering.

Evie grins. "That seems a familiar reaction."

Lottie nods, unable to find the words to voice her feelings. She can't draw her eyes away from the floor, can't bear to see Evie's ever understanding expression and encouraging smile. Because Lottie's not sure if she can forgive Jacob for what he's done, not when everything's a mess and he _misses her_.

Jacob set her training back months with his actions, with his words and encouragement. Jacob halted her progress and set doubts in her mind and in the minds of others. Jacob inadvertently – _or was it,_ Lottie thinks, because she's really not that sure with Jacob – caused the upheaval of medical care around the city and children, _Millie's children_ became ill.

"I know he can be difficult, Lottie," Evie says and her hand on Lottie's arm is a surprise and a comfort. "He would never say it but he misses you."

Those three words are haunting her, Lottie thinks, they must be, and she wonders how much Evie knows about her brother to say that. She thinks Jacob would be so proud as to keep those words to himself, to continue to go without her presence and bite his tongue. Does Evie know her brother at all?

It sets Lottie doubting once more, in the way she's become so accustomed these past few months. She sighs again, the sound like an old friend to her by now.

"I'll..." she pauses. "I'll talk to him."

Just like that, Evie's comforting tone and hand on her arm are gone, replaced by a sharp smack that has Lottie gasping and stepping back. Evie ignores Lottie's offended and hurt gaze and she feels like she might shrink under the other woman's reprimanding eyes.

"No, you won't," Evie says, and Lottie has no argument for that because she wasn't going to.

But she can't find the words to say it aloud, to agree, and Evie doesn't need her to anyway. Evie _knows_ already because, after all, Evie knows _everything_.

But Evie's stare has turned hard and Lottie's shrinking even further under it. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and opens it again, over and over until Evie's stare turns to an amused smirk.

"No, I won't," Lottie concedes regretfully and she begins to turn away, thinking only of the bottle on the floor of her car and the restless sleep she'll inevitably get.

"I know it's difficult," Evie reiterates, and her hand grazes Lottie's arm again, pausing her where she turns to leave, "and you're both as stubborn as mules." She pauses, like she's testing the words, and then she says, "There are two sides to every battle, Lottie."

"History is written by the victor," Lottie shoots back but even to her the words are dry and unnecessary and she wishes she could take them back.

Lottie can't distinguish the look on Evie's face when she says, "You've already won."

Her mouth is like sandpaper, dry like the words she'd uttered before, and it's a few minutes before she can think of anything to say in response.

And even then, when she finally has her wits about her again and her thoughts in some semblance of order, all she can say is, "What do you mean?"

Evie's expression doesn't change and Lottie thinks the other woman looks every bit like the master assassin she is, indistinguishable and cold to the naked eye and with an intelligence to her that sets her apart from the everyday crowd – Lottie would even go so far as to say it sets her apart for every other assassin.

"He didn't tell you?" she starts, slowly but there's no trace of uneasiness about her voice, only curiosity. "I was sure you'd be the first person he'd brag to."

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Jacob is the one who suggested reinstating you," Evie tells her, turning away and adjusting her already neatly piled papers. "Insisted on it actually."

Lottie blinks. Her heart misses a beat and drops to her stomach.

For a long while she can't think of anything to say, reeling from this new piece of information. She stares at the assassination wall, then looks at Evie's back as the other Frye leaves the car, bidding her goodnight without saying a word.

Then, after staring hard at the portraits and struggling to breathe, she says:

"Shit." 

* * *

As has become her familiar tactic, Lottie has taken to running miles in the other direction from Jacob Frye. She's rarely in the train anymore, preferring to spend her days in the growing heat of the late-Spring sun and her evenings in her own car with her nearly empty whiskey bottle.

She's going to have to replace it soon, she thinks with dread. _Really soon_.

London is beautiful in the glow of the setting sun, streaks of red across the sky above her. She stands on a rooftop alone, watching the streets below her with very little interest, fidgeting and nervy, though she's not sure why. She hasn't seen Millie yet, too cowardly to go to her and talk to her, to paint the picture of Lottie's troubles and wait for another opinion.

She's not sure she can bear someone else telling her to _talk_ to _him_ , that he _misses her_.

The words are becoming painful to hear, painful to think, painful to _ignore_.

Because she misses him too and she hates him for it.

She shouldn't miss him, not after what he's done to her, not after the way his actions had reflected badly on her. She shouldn't want to go on missions with him again, she shouldn't want to take down targets with him again, shouldn't want anything to _do_ with him.

But she _does_.

She's not sure what that says about her.

More importantly, she shouldn't be so _eager_ to forgive him, even if he was the one who restored faith and confidence in her abilities, even if he _is_ the one who swallowed his pride and spoke to Evie and Henry on her behalf.

She walks back to the train heavy with the knowledge that she'll have to go into the dining car and replace her whiskey bottle. She runs the risk of running into Jacob and she's not sure if that's what she wants right now. She's not sure if she's ready to _talk_ to him, if she's ready to _thank_ him when she's still not sure if she even _wants_ to.

All she's sure of is that her nightmares have returned ten-fold, stronger and more terrifying than ever, and her whiskey bottle is nearly empty.

"Lottie! Oi, Lottie!"

Her heart nearly stops at being recognised, at the loud voice bellowing her name across the street at her, but when she glances up and sees the familiar red beard and shaggy hair jogging towards her, she's embarrassed by her panic.

"Jack," she greets with a nod in his direction. Trailing after him and looking flustered is Bonny and Lottie nods to her too. "What can I do for you?"

"Haven't seen you in a while," Jack says, stopping in front of her, puffing slightly. Lottie wonders how long they've been jogging after her. "We've missed you."

_Yes_ , Lottie thinks, _apparently you're not the only ones_.

Lottie shrugs. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for your drinking buddies? I'm hurt."

Lottie huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. "Mend your injuries," she says, "I need to replace my bottle."

"Good t' hear," Bonny pipes up, "that'll stop his _whining_."

"Oi," Jack snaps without real harshness. He clutches his chest, over his heart, and says, "I'm offended, Bonny, truly."

"You'll survive," she deadpans.

"If that's all," Lottie starts with a smile and a step back on her heel, "I really must get back to the –"

"Jack, Bonny," she hears shouted at them and she can't help but feel like she's being set up with everything that's happened lately. "This is no time for dawdling!"

Her eyes run briefly over Jacob where he stands across from them and he cuts an intimidating form, surrounded by four Rooks and –

Lottie swallows, eyes going wide.

Gone are the ratty coat and flat cap and the boyish demeanour and in its place stands a man in a black trench coat gripping a Kukri blade in his right hand. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and tied loosely around the collar is a red tie, disappearing into a jade green waistcoat.

Atop his head, reminding Lottie so much of that first mission with him, Jacob wears a top hat.

She'd told him then that it didn't suit him, only because it was _him_ and she didn't want to inflate his already large ego. It seems, she thinks, that someone else convinced him otherwise, because the man in front of her stands tall and smirks at her like he knows exactly what she's thinking.

He inclines his head at her, the tips of his fingers coming up to touch the rim of his hat. "Evening, Miss Crawley," is all he says and then he starts barking orders at the Rooks around him and disappearing into the carriage nearby.

Lottie's mouth is dry. She's not sure what she expected; for him to swagger over to her and loudly profess his apologies one more time? To get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness? Or perhaps she hoped he might acknowledge the good deed he'd done for her, the part he played in ensuring her abilities did not go to waste.

"That's our cue, Jack ol' boy," mutters Bonny. "Looks like the Boss is in the mood for some fun."

"Isn't he always?" mutters Jack. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lottie, aye?"

Lottie nods wordlessly.

She thinks Jacob's supposed indifference towards her should not be as attractive as it is.

* * *

She barely sleeps the next couple of nights, too cowardly to go to the dining car for fear of running in to Jacob.

Her bottle lies empty on the floor of her car, mocking her as she lies awake for the third night in a row, grasping for a restful sleep that's out of reach.

In the end, she tosses and turns for ten minutes before she makes the decision to get out of bed. Her bare foot brushes the empty cold bottle as she slips into her boots, half-heartedly lacing them up.

She takes a deep breath, and another, and another, until she's on her feet and walking to the dining car before she can convince herself otherwise.

"In and out," she mutters, "get in, get the bottle, get out. In and out. _In and out_."

A week ago she wouldn't have been this nervous, she thinks, but then Evie had happened and then _Jacob_ happened, and she's not sure she can do it anymore.

It had been so easy before, back when Jacob had been wearing those ratty jackets and that ridiculous flat cap and looking handsome in that boyish way. He had been so easy then, when she was angry with him, with no chance of forgiving him any time soon, but then Evie had gone and told her what he'd done, how _nice_ he'd been.

Now he's got that coat and that hat and that _smirk_ that she's sure hasn't always made her heart pound in her ears the way it does now.

Now Jacob is _devilishly_ handsome and a _man_ and Lottie's never been more terrified.

The dining car is almost empty, save for a few passed out Rooks in the booths and Jack and Bonny at the bar.

She sidles in behind the counter and grasps the neck of the bottle, ready to disappear as quick as she'd come and attempt to get some sleep.

"Lottie," Jack greets, surprised, seeing her before him. "Where 'ave you been?"

"Busy," she says quickly, eyes darting to the door, sure that Jacob might saunter in at any moment and catch her unawares.

"Doesn't matter," Jack says and there's a slight slur to his voice, betraying his drunkenness. "Drink with us, Lottie!"

"I'd really rather prefer to –"

"Just one," he presses. "Just one to celebrate, eh?"

He slides a dirty, empty glass across the table to her, looking so _hopeful_ , and she can't help it. She reaches under the bar for three clean glasses, setting them on the bar, and she pours three shots for them.

"What are we celebrating?" she asks, setting the whiskey bottle on the counter, watching Bonny's sluggish movements as she struggles to take the glass.

"The Boss," she slurs, her fingers finally wrapping around the cool glass.

"The Rooks," Jack adds.

They're looking at her, expectant, waiting for her to add to their toasts – their drunken declarations of importance. She lifts her glass, words sifting through her mind; what does she toast? The Brotherhood? London? Her _father_?

Instead, she says, "A good night's sleep."

She's missed the burn, missed the light-headedness that follows the first shot. She's losing her touch she thinks, she's been off the bottle too long.

"Another!" Bonny says loudly, sliding her glass along the table.

Lottie dutifully fills them up again, forgetting everything for a moment, forgetting her fears and her nerves, forgetting who she's supposed to be avoiding.

They all happen like that, passing her by in a blur of words and shouts and _laughs_ , until more than half the bottle is gone and Lottie's nearly sliding off the bar stool she's perched on. Her head feels heavy – and the room started swaying three shots ago.

Bonny's on the floor and Jack's snoring and Lottie needs to get back to her room – but she can't remember _why._

Her hand is curled loosely around the neck of the whiskey bottle in front of her face and all she can see is the amber bottle, all she can see is her own distorted face, reflected back at her in the dark glass. She's not sure if she's imagining it, because there's no way her reflection is that clear, but she's sure she can see the dark circles around her eyes, the downturn of her lips as she frowns.

_I frown too much_ , she thinks but she's not sure if it's true, _I need to smile more_.

She watches her face as she smiles at herself, hazily and not all there. She hums and huffs a laugh, pushing herself off the bar with the hand that's not wrapped around the bottle. She's nearly upright when she gives up, slumping on the bar again and leaning her forehead on her forearm.

Warm fingers pry her hand from the whiskey bottle, and she hears it scrape along the wood as a body slides onto the bar stool beside her.

(She can't remember coming out from behind the bar – when did that happen?)

"So this is your poison," the body beside her muses and for a moment all her drunken mind can think is, _what a nice voice_ , forgetting who it belongs to, forgetting their problems, _her_ problems.

"Hm," she hums in answer, smiling serenely up at him, her head still on the bar top. Her hair sticks to the surface as she forces herself upright, thinking she's imaging his hands on her arms, steadying her, helping her.

He does that _a lot_ , she thinks, when she wouldn't peg him to be the type to.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Jacob says, and he slides the whiskey bottle out of her reach when she tries to grab for it. "I think you've had _enough_ to drink."

"You don't know me," she hears herself say, but it sounds so distant, "you don't _know_ me."

"No," Jacob agrees, "but I'd like to, if you'll let me."

Lottie hums again and huffs another laugh. "So odd," she says, but she can't for the life of her think what's _odd_ about anything.

Jacob agrees with her anyway, nodding and breathing a laugh that stirs the hairs on her forehead. He's warm, she thinks, drawing closer to him, sliding from the stool and relying too much on his firm grip on her arms.

"I'm not your fireplace, Lottie," Jacob says wryly, setting her on the stool again and he's watching her carefully, just in case she tumbles from the stool like Bonny did.

She watches Jacob take a long swig from the whiskey bottle – _her_ whiskey bottle, it's the whole reason she's here in the first place, after all. She watches the way his throat works as he swallows, the way his face is tilted upwards.

When he sets the bottle down on the counter again, she says, dumbly, frowning at the marks on the table, the knife marks in the wood, the sticky rings from other bottles; "My father's dead."

It's the first time she's said it, she thinks, since that first night with Millie, when she'd told her friend. The words feel foreign on her tongue, unusual, and tears sting at her eyes.

She hasn't really thought about it since then, hasn't really allowed herself to, and if drink is the only thing that draws the words from her, she's been lucky enough to be sleeping before she could ever let it get this bad.

Her eyes settle on Jacob's face, on the crooked set of his nose, the scar through his eyebrow, his dark eyes watching her amusedly but sadly. She wants to wipe the wrinkles from his brow, straighten the creases that mar his perfect face.

He says, "Mine too," and takes another long drink from her bottle, still keeping it from her reach when she tries to grab it.

She watches his lips, watches the way he licks them afterwards, when he's setting the bottle down on the counter. His jaw is littered with bruises, she notices now, old and new, purple and blue and yellow and green, and there's a new cut on his lip that must sting whenever the alcohol in the bottle touches it.

Lottie reaches forward, nearly toppling over again, and she steadies herself on Jacob's shoulders, her face close to his, the kind of close Lottie knows she can only get with drink pulsing through her veins and clouding her thoughts.

There's a smirk on his lips as he watches her, curiously, and she can't remember what she was planning to do in the first place, when she leaned forward and grabbed him. All she knows now is she can see flecks of green in his eyes that are watching her as closely as she's watching him.

"Lovely Lottie," he breathes, and his warm breath tickles her lips, "lovely, lovely Lottie. What are you doing?"

"I don't know," she tells him honestly, and to some degree her drunken mind knows she's not just talking about him. "I don't know."

She's so close, so _close_ , that she can smell the whiskey on his breath and see the diamond-like pattern on the collar of his jacket.

She could lean forward a fraction of an inch and their lips would be touching.

"I don't know," she whispers again, breathing him in.

Jacob, Evie, Henry, _Lynch_ , the Brotherhood, the Order, she _doesn't know_. Everything's blurring together and her drink addled brain begins to wonder if they're not as separate as she believes – maybe the only way to kill Lynch _is_ to liberate London. Maybe her quest for vengeance can only be completed with the Frye's help.

_What are you doing_? Jacob's words spiral in her mind, twisting and turning and tumbling and it's all so mixed up now.

_What am I doing_? She thinks, feeling more sober than she is, pulling away before she can do something stupid. _What am I doing_?

"Such a puzzle," Jacob tells her, and his dark eyes are watching her face keenly, drinking her in as eagerly as she had him. "A puzzle I intend to solve."


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie deals with the consequences of her drunken night and Jacob takes a risk.

Millie sets a mug of something questionable in front of her and she groans.

The rim is cracked and there are stains all over it, but Lottie's not going to complain aloud, not when just the sound of her voice might cause her headache to return tenfold.

"Serves you right," mutters Millie from the window. There's a jovial smile on her face and if Lottie wasn't feeling so sorry for herself, she'd asked what it's about. "Staying up all hours and getting _drunk_. Shame on you, Charlotte Crawley, you ought to know better."

Lottie's answer is a defeated groan.

She _knows_ this, of course she does, because it's all she's been telling herself since waking up. She hasn't stopped hearing her father's disapproving words all morning, hasn't stopped wondering about the look on his face if he'd seen her brought this low.

She hates that she let herself be convinced into drinking so much, hates that Jack's simple words of, "just one more, Lottie, just _one_ more," had seemed so encouraging to her drink addled brain whenever she'd tried to put a stop to it. She's stronger than this, has always been stronger than this, and she's vowing now that she's not going to drink again.

(Well, she's not going to drink with _company_ again).

Another groan is drawn from her lips but she forces herself to sit upright and take hold of the mug. The cracks in the rim remain the focus of her tired eyes and she barely glances up as Millie drags out the chair across from her, settling slowly and comfortably.

"I'm not drinking again," Lottie laments, but before she'd even said the words she knew they were a lie. "Never again."

"Hm," hums Millie, unconvinced, and Lottie drops her head on the table with a dull _thud_ and a self-pitied moan.

"They all say that," sing-songs Millie, reaching for the mug she'd set in front and drawing it away again. She hasn't touched it, has no intention of, and she's glad Millie knows her well enough to realise that it was a waste of time in the first place.

"I'm deadly serious," Lottie groans, lifting her head from the table.

"Miss Lottie?" asks a small voice at the door, and Lottie's head swivels round so fast she's sure she's given herself whiplash.

Daniel stands in the doorway, peering at her with a look of adorable confusion that only children can have. She tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace and she already knows she looks a state – Henry had given her a pitying look as she'd snuck out of the train earlier, keen to avoid Jacob and Evie, and lessen her humiliation.

She can remember Jacob from last night, can remember – embarrassingly – almost tumbling from her stool and clinging to him, leaning in close and studying his face with a drunken mind that had no concept for personal space.

She's not sure she can bring herself to tell Millie – or anyone.

"Hello Daniel," she greets kindly and she's proud of the way she keeps her voice steady and _normal_. The last thing she needs is Daniel and the other children to see just how hungover she is. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Miss Lottie," says Daniel, and she sees Millie at her shoulder, nodding in approval.

"What's wrong?" Millie cuts in abruptly and she's ushering Lottie from her chair and striding to Daniel, following the little boy into the hall.

Lottie follows at a much slower pace, still struggling under her hangover haze and the headache pounding at her temples, but curious. Daniel hasn't interrupted Lottie and Millie's conversations since that first night Lottie had arrived at the orphanage, cold and wet and miserable and _lost_.

"Ethan's not here," Daniel says, and beside Millie he looks so small, "he ran onto the street and he's not back yet."

Lottie sees the colour drain from Millie's face, sees the shaking of her hands as she forces her way past Daniel and into the small garden. Lottie's hand brushes Daniel's shoulder as she passes him, a small comfort, but she can't deny the way her heart is pounding against her rib cage.

She hopes Millie's fears haven't been realised so soon and she's sure as soon as she steps out of the orphanage she'll see the blood red of the Blighters on the street, their weapons draw and their smiles wicked.

The sun is temporarily blinding as she steps slowly onto the cracked stone step outside the door. Millie is at the bottom of the crooked path, hovering at the gate and looking left and right, left and right, face pale and expression desperate.

Lottie can hear her muttered pleas before she's even close to her friend, and she reaches for her hands to stop her frantically tugging at the apron around her waist.

"I'll find him," she says, "he can't have wandered far."

Millie nods but she doesn't say a word. Lottie takes her arms and gently turns her towards the orphanage, towards the children lingering in the garden, watching her.

"I'll find him," she reassures, "I will. Look after them. I'll be back before you know it."

She doesn't linger to hear Millie's reply.

But she hears the children's gasps of delight as she lifts her arm and fires her rope launcher, and she can't deny the thrill it gives her to be seen like that to them, as something to be awed by.

It's a bright day in London, not a cloud in the sky, and below her, the streets are crowded with people, citizens and Blighters alike. Lottie spies a couple of Rooks by the corner of the streets, lingering the dark of the alleys, their green coats making the targets on their backs stand out far too much.

_Damn it Jacob_ , she thinks, watching the Blighters prowling towards the two. The Rooks have no influence in this district yet, Lottie thinks, and it's risky for her to be there too – she can't imagine what Jacob is even thinking sending two of his Rooks into an overpopulated area of enemy territory.

She wants to help them, she _does_ , but Ethan is her priority right now. Millie needs him home, Millie needs him safe, and she does too. With so many Blighters around –

She's sure the sounds of gunshots on the street below will haunt her dreams tonight.

Lottie's not sure she's going to manage to find him, not with the streets so crowded; he's only little, and she's sure he's not aware of the dangers the Blighters possess if he gets too close.

She's getting desperate, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, and _damn it_ , why do children have to be so small? She can't focus, not when there's so much _red_ on the street below her, not when she's so used to seeing too much _green_.

"Millie needs to relocate," Lottie mutters to herself, crouching on the edge of a rooftop and surveying the streets. "Somewhere safe, with lots of Rooks to protect the children. Whitechapel."

"Oi!" shouts a voice below, a thunderous roar that draws Lottie's attention. "Stop, thief!"

The commotion catches her eye and the dreadful realisation beginning to pool in her stomach gives way to acceptance when she sees the small body fleeing the scene, darting through the bodies and disappearing up the alleys.

"Damn it, Ethan," she mutters, catching sight of the _red_ jackets giving chase.

She follows from above, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, firing her rope launcher when necessity calls for it. Ethan is running farther and farther away from the orphanage, farther and farther away from _safety_ and the Blighters aren't giving up.

What did he steal, Lottie thinks, that's brought on such perseverance?

Ethan is running with too much confidence to have never done this before and Lottie's mind is already beginning to put the pieces together before she even sees the Rooks around the next corner. Ethan skids to a halt behind them but there's no protection for him there, not when there's so little of the Rooks and so _many_ of the Blighters.

"Alright lads," crows Jacob Frye, and damn it but Lottie should have _known_ he'd have a hand in this. He holds out his hand and Ethan hands him a bundle of papers, ripped at the corners and tied with a thin string. "Let's not do something we'll regret."

"You forget your place, Mr _Frye_ ," sneers one of the Blighters, the same one who'd drawn attention to Ethan and forced the chase. "Bloody Nora will 'ave your 'ead on a pike."

"Not if I have hers first," replies Jacob steadily and with that trademark smirk, reaching into his coat for his Kukri and drawing it out with a flourish.

Ethan is still in the back of the Rooks, lingering by the wall of the alley, trapped, and all Lottie can think is what it will do to Millie if Ethan is killed here and now, killed for listening to the wrong person.

"I'm going to _kill_ you, Jacob," Lottie mutters savagely.

She knows Henry uses children as spies but as _thieves_? Lottie thinks that's a step too far.

Jacob charging the Blighters is the only warning Lottie gets before all hell breaks loose in the alley below, and she loses sight of Ethan amidst the chaos, his tiny body disappearing seamlessly into the shadows.

And Lottie refuses to let anything happen to him.

She leaps from the roof, joining the fray without another thought.

"Ah," Jacob shouts and his grin is exhilarated, just like Lottie's used to, "just couldn't stay away, eh?"

She draws her own Kukri, slicing up the front of a Blighter woman charging at her from the front. She follows it up with her hidden blade, sinking the metal into the woman's throat and looking over her shoulder at the other assassin.

"I'm going to kill you," she tells him seriously, darkly, but she has to fight a smile at Jacob's unworried look.

"And here I was thinking we were making progress," he calls over his shoulder, throwing a punch at a Blighter and Lottie's fascinated, like she always is, with Jacob's brutal and beautiful fighting style.

"Last night was a fluke!"

"That's not the way I see it, love!"

Lottie reaches for a throwing knife and casts it effortlessly at the Blighter charging at Jacob's back. It nicks him in the shoulder and his pained shout draws Jacob's attention.

"You've been practicing," Jacob praises, sinking his hidden blade into the gut of the Blighter and watching him crumble to the ground. He grabs the knife from the Blighter's shoulder before he can slump forward, and Lottie's not sure why, not until Jacob returns the favour and she whirls round just in time to avoid a wickedly sharp blade to the head.

"So have you," she returns, knocking the woman's feet out from under her and ending her life with a quick slice to the neck.

"Please," Jacob scoffs, "I don't need to."

Together with the Rooks, they manage to finish off the Blighters and the awed gasp from Ethan as the last of their opponents lives are drawn from them is enough to remind Lottie why she's here in the first place.

She sheathes her weapons, and tries to channel Millie, tries to channel the look the woman always gives her whenever Lottie messes up particularly badly.

"Ethan," she calls, arms across her chest. "Shouldn't you be getting back to the orphanage?"

Jacob looks between Ethan and Lottie, his own weapons sheathed, and he pats his breast pocket where he's tucked away the bundle of papers Ethan had stolen for him. He looks satisfied and he ruffles Ethan's hair.

"Good job, lad," he says fondly, "but be more discreet next time."

"Don't encourage him," Lottie scolds furiously, whirling on Jacob. "He's just a boy."

"Henry uses children," Jacob defends, like it makes it all better.

"They know their limits!"

"So do mine!"

Lottie freezes, staring at Jacob like he's just grown another head. Behind her, she hears Ethan sigh and when she turns to look at him, he's kicking at a stone on the ground, looking every bit like a kicked puppy.

"Names," she demands, turning her back on Jacob, "and you _know_ I am going to inform Millie of this."

"Aw, no, Miss Lottie, please don't!"

"Lottie, come _on_ ," Jacob cuts in and Lottie doesn't realise how close he's gotten to her until his hand is cupping her elbow, tugging gently to try and get her to look at him. "They're perfectly safe! It's really no different from Clara and her urchins."

"Clara and her _urchins_ knows their limits," Lottie says waspishly and she can see his point of view in the whole thing, she _can_ , but Ethan is one of Millie's and she can't let anything happen to him, she _can't_. "And that _wasn't_ safe, Jacob! He could have been killed!"

"Jacob, eh?" replies the other assassin, and Lottie wants to smack the shit-eating grin right off his face. "What happened to 'Mr Frye'?"

She takes a deep breath. "Mr Frye –"

"I _knew_ last night meant something to you too," he jokes wryly, and Lottie's blood is boiling.

"Now is not the time to discuss last night, Mr Frye," she snaps and she's all too aware now of the Rooks still lingering around their boss, shooting curious glances at each other, elbowing each other. She _knows_ the implications, she _knows_ what they're probably thinking, and she can't help but feel like _that_ would be a lot easier to explain.

And a lot less humiliating.

She takes Ethan's shoulder and begin to guide him from the alley, holding her head up as she passes through the throng of Rooks whispering and muttering.

She says, trying to retain as much of her dignity as possible, "Good day, Mr Frye."

"Nice working wiff you, Mr Frye," Ethan calls over his shoulder.

She sighs, rubbing her hand down her face, feeling more tired than she ever has in her life. Her hangover returns to the forefront of her mind and her head is pounding again.

"Names," she says again, now that they're alone and Ethan's away from Jacob's infuriating influence. Ethan's grin is toothy and adorable. "This is serious."

"Yes," agrees Ethan, "that's why Mr Frye has nearly all o' us helpin' 'im, Miss."

Lottie stops mid-step, absorbing this new information, and it takes her a few minutes of simply standing still before she can get her thoughts in order. She tries to speak, fails, pauses, and tries again, shaking her head.

"All of the children," she says slowly, "all of _Millie_ 's children – you're all working for the Rooks?"

" _With_ the Rooks," corrects Ethan stubbornly. "We don't work for 'em, Miss Lottie, we _are_ Rooks. Or, well, Mr Frye says so. He says when we grow up he'll have our jackets waiting for us."

Lottie swallows the lump in her throat. Lottie has never disliked the childlike innocence of Millie's children before now, before listening to Ethan talk about joining the Rooks like it's some fancy job he's being groomed for.

She supposes, in a way, it is, and she can't help but feel like it's the same situation she finds herself in. Her parents were assassins and now she is following in their footsteps, groomed from childhood by her father after her mother's passing.

It must be similar, she thinks, Ethan must be in a similar situation. But that doesn't mean she has to like it. And she doesn't have to be quiet about her displeasure either.

"What Mr Frye and the Rooks are _doing_ , Ethan, it's not a game." She pauses and her hand on his shoulder stops him from walking ahead of her. "You could have been killed today, Ethan."

"Wouldn't be the first time," the little boy tells her simply. "Mr Frye is always there to make sure nothin' bad 'appens to us." 

"Even so," she argues, "he can't be there all the time. What would have happened to you today, if Mr Frye hadn't been there? What if you'd been caught before you could reach him?"

"You worry too much," Ethan tells her, "and you frown too much."

The words ring bells in her mind, forcing her to recall her drunken stupor the night before. She'd thought that at some point, she thinks, before Jacob had sidled into the bar stool beside her and tore her bottle from her grasp.

"I think I have every reason to frown, Ethan," she says sternly. They're coming up on the orphanage and Lottie can see Millie at the gate. She almost hear her worried murmurs.

Ethan freezes mid-step and looks up at her pleadingly. "Please, Miss Lottie," he begs, "don't tell her! We only want to help – we're in no danger, miss, I swear!"

_You're in plenty of danger_ , Lottie almost says, _you just don't know it_.

Millie doesn't realise the children are slipping from her grasp and Lottie _knows_ Jacob won't be there all the time to ensure their safety – but she can't either.

But he's looking so hopeful, so _pleading_ , and she doesn't know what information he got for Jacob but the man looked so damn _pleased_...

She sighs. "You owe me."


	16. Destructive Tendencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob's partnership with Pearl Attaway meets a bloody end, and the Rooks send Lottie to talk some sense into their boss.

Jacob is nowhere in sight when Lottie steps onto the train and she eyes the dripping red X on Pearl Attaway's portrait with confusion. Evie is hunched over her desk and greets her only with a nod of the head in her direction.

"I thought she was a business associate?" Lottie asks and she settles on Jacob's sofa while Evie finishes whatever she's writing.

"She was," Evie says and she looks at her over her shoulder. "As it turned out, she was also the cousin of Crawford Starrick."

Lottie gapes at her. "Crawford Starrick? As in Templar Grandmaster _Crawford Starrick_?"

"The very same."

"I can't imagine Jacob was very impressed with that news."

"He was quite brusque when he told me," Evie confesses after a time. She looks directly at Lottie. "The news of Miss Attaway's connection to Starrick came to me through one of his Rooks."

"That's unlike him," Lottie comments and Evie hums in agreement.

Jacob would never miss an opportunity to boast about his achievements, this Lottie knows from experience, and his curt attitude towards Evie when she asked makes Lottie believe that there's something more at play here.

She frowns at the portrait, a question on the tip of her tongue, when Evie adds:

"In his haste, he also managed to incapacitate London's principal omnibus companies."

"His haste?" repeats Lottie and Evie's expression darkens.

"It seems my brother was quite taken with Miss Attaway," she says with a derisive scoff. "He was quite keen to impress her and he removed competition from her path. With her death, London's transit world has collapsed into chaos."

_That sounds like Jacob_ , Lottie thinks, and she draws her eyes away from the Templar wall. She hates the lurch her heart gives at hearing of Jacob's fascination with the Templar woman but if Evie notices any change in her, she doesn't say.

Evie shifts on her feet. "I thought I might ask for your aid once more," she says at last and Lottie's so flattered that her agreement is on her lips before Evie can elaborate. "You were a great help to me in cleaning up Jacob's last mess and I enjoyed your company."

"Of course," she says. "I'd be happy to." 

* * *

Jacob's strange attitude lingers in the back of her mind all through the rest of the evening, long after the transit world has regained its footing and she and Evie have parted ways.

She doesn't see him for another two days but she hears of his fury, of the Blighter strongholds he's taken in his rage, the bounty's he's collected and the Templars he's struck down. The Rooks can sense a change in him but he's never in the dining car when she is and while usually she'd be the one avoiding him, it seems it's the other way around now.

"It's odd," says Jack, and he's shaking his head and staring at the golden amber liquid swirling in the bottom of his glass. "I 'ave nothin' against the Boss's moods but this is just _odd_."

"Usually he doesn't take them out on us," agrees Bonny and Lottie perks up, setting the whiskey bottle in her hand down on the bar.

"What?" she asks, and Bonny and Jack glance at her. "He's in a mood?"

"Aye," says Jack. He empties his glass. "Worse I've ever seen."

"We haven't stopped fighting Blighters for days," moans Bonny, and Lottie eyes the angry cut on her cheek and her bruised knuckles.

"He doesn't even seem to be havin' fun," adds Jack, "not like he usually does."

Lottie hums at the news, hands loosely cradling the neck of the whiskey bottle set on the bar top. The other Rooks don't seem as jolly as usual, she realises now, so affected by their Boss's glum mood.

She wonders again just _what_ happened with Pearl Attaway to affect Jacob so.

"Somethin' weighs on his mind," Jack persists and Lottie doesn't notice the inquisitive lilt to his voice until she glances up and sees the two Rooks staring at her.

She steps back. "No," she says adamantly, shaking her head. "No."

"Come _on_ Lottie," says Jack and Bonny's sitting straighter in her stool and Lottie knows she's not imagining the other Rooks eavesdropping on their conversation. She shakes her head and makes to walk away. "Lottie," Jack calls loudly, abandoning any pretence of their conversation only involving the three of them, like it usually does. "His foul moods are not doing the city any good."

"Perhaps you ought to bring this up with _him_?" Lottie fires back and when she glances over her shoulder she sees every Rook in the dining car on their feet and staring at her. She sighs and shakes her head again. "I don't know what you want me to do. Jacob and I are not exactly friends."

"Course you are," says a Rook, leaning on a table and looking at her in earnest. "Mr Frye has the highest regard for you."

_Of course he does,_ Lottie wants to say bitterly, _that's why we argue and he's gotten me in so much trouble_.

"Miss Crawley," says another, a small woman with scars on her cheek and hair like gold, "he's gettin' reckless, killin' Blighters and fightin' in the clubs 'til late."

Lottie's running out of excuses. "That's just Jacob," she says, but even to her the words sounds weak and odd and the Rooks aren't convinced.

"Even Mr Frye knows when to stop, Miss," says a muscly man in the back, voice rough and growly and Lottie recognises him as the man who'd threatened that night so long ago. She turns her eyes to the floor, to the dirt and alcohol stained carpet.

"Surely Miss Frye is the best person to-"

"Mr and Miss Frye 'ave been buttin' 'eads, Miss," says the blonde.

Lottie can understand the underlying message; she's the only person the Rooks can talk to about this that Jacob _might_ – and it's an _awfully big_ 'might' – listen to.

And it might satisfy her underlying curiosity about what happened with Pearl Attaway.

She sighs again.

"Where is he now?" 

* * *

As soon as the door opens and Lottie forces her way through the rowdy crowds, she regrets the decision to help the Rooks with their Boss.

She thinks it's a good sign, and it's endearing that the Rooks care so much about their Boss that they'd ask her to intervene, to _talk_ to him, despite the fact she's sure she might set her acquaintance with him back a few steps just for trying.

Lottie doesn't know what she was expecting when she came here but it certainly wasn't _this_.

She doesn't even need to ask anyone where Jacob is because she spots him immediately, in the centre of the fighting ring, bloodied and bruised, and staring down a man considerably larger and stronger than he.

His lips is cut and so is his cheek and even like this, glowering and furious and beat all to hell, Lottie can't help but think he's never been more attractive.

_Personal attachments_ , a voice whispers in the back of her mind, but her eyes are trailing over his sweat soaked form, over the tattoo over his heart, the blood soaked bandages coming undone on his hands. She pushes her way to the front of the crowd in time for Jacob's opponent to charge at him, in time for Jacob to lift his gaze uncaringly and meet her own.

He smirks at her.

The cheers of the crowd crescendo as they grapple and while Lottie knows Jacob can win this, she's not sure he _will_. He's an assassin and a brawler and she knows he _lives_ for this, but the man she sees in the ring is distracted and filled with fury and has quite clearly been in that ring for a while.

Her doubts mean nothing in the end and Jacob lets the announcer hold his hand over his head, declaring him the victor and Jacob's eyes return to Lottie's and she can see the question there now.

Lottie wants to seem angry but mostly she's impressed and she's sure he knows.

She follows him silently to the back room, rehearsing words in her head, recalling the Rooks expectant gazes, their earnest hopes that she'll be able to draw their Boss back from his destructive – _more destructive_ – tendencies.

"Fancy seein' you here," he says by way of greeting, as soon as the door falls shut behind her and the shouts from the crowd have been muffled some. "Didn't take you for the type to frequent fight clubs."

Lottie's lips curls in distaste, more so when Jacob laughs at her. "I don't."

"Aw," he crows, "did you make an exception for me?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Jacob's interest is piqued, she can tell, and he faces her plainly, leaning against the table at his back. His weapons are set on the surface and thrown hastily on one of the chairs are his shirt and coat. Lottie draws her hood down and there are strands of blonde hair in her eyes that draw her focus from Jacob for a few blissful seconds.

Jacob's peeling the bandages from his hands and Lottie can hear the hisses through bared teeth as he tosses them aside, the flesh of his knuckles torn and battered and bloodied. It's nothing she hasn't seen on him before, nothing she's not unaware of, but whenever she's seen the bruises they've always been a few days old and the cuts have been healing or hidden.

Lottie swallows and she hates the wave of sympathy she's hit with.

Jacob takes an idle swig from the bottle set on the table top, and Lottie storms forward. She slices a chunk from Jacob's abandoned shirt and swipes the bottle from his hand, ignoring his outraged, " _Oi_!" as she soaks the white fabric.

"Give me your hands," she orders calmly, a touch angrily, and when he doesn't she snatches one anyway. He hisses as Lottie dabs the cloth to his knuckles, cleaning his wounds and refusing to look at him.

"You were a lot nicer when you were drunk," he says and she can smell the alcohol on his breath. He's not quite drunk, she realises dismally, but neither is he sober.

"You were a lot less stupid," Lottie retorts.

Her attention is fixed on Jacob's hands, the blood and the bruises that coat them. She's not sure if it's ever been this bad, if he's ever done something like this before coming to London, but she's not sure she wants to ask Evie, too wary of the consequences Jacob will receive from his sister.

"You still haven't told me why you're here," Jacob breathes.

"Perhaps I don't intend to," Lottie murmurs, taking his other hand.

"Hm," hums the other assassin. "The lovely Lottie Crawley frequenting a fight club, whatever will my sister think? What would your _father_ think?"

Lottie shouldn't feel as satisfied as she is by the hiss he gives when she scrubs particularly hard at one of his knuckles.

She forces herself to remain calm as she says steadily, "I suppose it's fortunate my father will never find out."

"How very harsh of you, Miss Crawley," he says, and Lottie's not sure if he's referring to her touch or her words. It doesn't matter, she supposes, because Jacob's pulling his hand from her grip and reaching for the bottle again. "I suppose I have my dear sister to thank for your appearance here?"

Lottie shakes her head. "Your Rooks, actually."

Jacob hums, the bottle at his lips and hardly a care in the world. The cut on his lip is bleeding again but Jacob doesn't seem to have noticed.

Lottie hands him the drink soaked cut of fabric as soon as he removes the bottle from his mouth. He sets the empty bottle on the table and presses the folded up fabric gingerly to his lip, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he does.

He still doesn't seem willing to open up about Pearl, and Lottie's not sure how to ask without being too forward.

"My Rooks sent you," Jacob muses. His eyes settle on Lottie's face unashamedly, his lips tilted up in a smirk as he drops his hand from his mouth, holding the bloodied fabric loosely in his fingers. "Now why would they do something like that?"

_Honesty_ , Lottie remembers her father telling her, _is the best policy_.

So she shrugs and tries to seem unconcerned as she tells him, "They're worried about their Boss."

"Oh, _really_."

Lottie nods curtly. "Yes," she says and her tone turns waspish as her nonchalant appearance shrivels under Jacob's infuriating and amused stare. "So perhaps now would be a good time to sort yourself out and start focussing on your _job_."

Jacob scoffs and doesn't move. His eyes never stray from her face and oh, how Lottie wants to punch his perfectly beautiful and bruised face. Jacob presses the bloodied rag to a cut on his cheekbone that Lottie hadn't noticed before and she reaches for his abandoned and ruined shirt and tosses it to him.

"Get dressed, Mr Frye," she says crossly, and she must be channelling Millie, she thinks, because Jacob doesn't even argue.

He turns his back to her and Lottie can see scars old and new covering his skin, ridges of silvery lines that have her reaching forward and aching to touch, to explore, to _ask_.

"You cut a hole in my shirt," Jacob tosses over his shoulder.

Lottie sighs. "There wasn't much else I could use."

"My shirt," he repeats and he's turned to show her the damage; a jagged whole over his ribcage, and Lottie's no expert, but she's sure it irreparable. "This is one of my best."

"Perhaps this will teach you to think before you decide to have yourself bloodied and beaten."

"Please," scoffs Jacob, "if anyone is bloodied and beaten it's those pissheads who tried to fight _me_."

This is the Jacob Lottie's used to; the one who throws witty comments towards her, the Jacob who digs at her and tries to uncover her secrets, tries to piece together the puzzle she is.

She finds she doesn't like this glum and silent man slouched across from her, and Lottie would even go so far to think there's anger simmering below it all, anger that she finds she's not quite sure she wants to ask about.

But she knows she has to, as much as she'd rather leave him to deal with it himself. The Rooks are depending on her.

"A problem shared is a problem halved," she says quietly, unsurely. Under Jacob's heated stare – _glare_ , she corrects, because that stare is _undoubtedly_ hostile – she nearly wilts, almost wishes she can take back her words. Instead, she swallows, and forces herself to add, "My father used to tell me that whenever something was troubling me."

A pause and a breath – silence.

Lottie nods. "A truth for a truth?" she tries.

Jacob still looks angry but she's just as stubborn as he is, and she's not giving up until he tells her what's troubling him, until her curiosity is satiated, until Jacob returns his focus to his job and stops putting his Rooks at risk.

Finally, Jacob sighs.

"There's isn't a problem," he tells her, and he insists, at the disbelieving rise of her eyebrow, "There _isn't_."

Lottie takes a deep breath and forces herself to grab the bull by the horns before she can talk herself out of it.

"What happened with Pearl Attaway?"

Another hissing inhale of breath before Jacob's hand wraps around the neck of the empty bottle. He launches it across the room and it shatters against the wall; this is the drink, Lottie convinces herself, he's half-drunk and angry and _this is the drink_.

"Good partnerships never last," he says at last, after a few moments of nothing but breathing heavily, hands on the table and his head bowed. Lottie is walking forward before she realises, hand raised, fingers inches away from his shirt, temptation to touch, to comfort-

She remembers herself suddenly, remembers who she is, who _he_ is, who they are; assassins, allies. They are not friends.

Lottie swallows the lump in her throat and convinces herself to speak, wishing more than ever that she had her whiskey bottle, that she could be drunk while she says these words.

"I didn't seek out the assassins to help liberate London," she admits quietly, breathlessly, and she casts her eyes to the ceiling, looking anywhere but at him.

She hears him turn, feels his eyes on her, but she can't look at him, not now, not like this, not when her heart is pounding in her ears and she's regretting the words already.

The silence is deafening and never-ending.

And then Jacob says, "Attaway used me to eliminate her competition. She was Crawford Starrick's cousin and a Templar. Your turn."

Lottie blinks and her hands clench into fists at her sides. She still won't look at him.

"Victor Lynch murdered my father."

Silence. She hears his footsteps on the floor, feels the heat from his skin as he comes towards her and she turns her eyes to the floor, ducking her head.

"I gave you two," Jacob breathes, and he sounds so sober now, so _aware_ and the words in Lottie's throat are the words she's wanted to say but never could, the words she's kept away for fear that those she calls allies, those she's found some semblance of sanctuary with, might turn her away.

She lifts her head and meets his hard stare head on, with as much strength and confidence as she can. She can't be ashamed of this, she _won't_ be, and if Jacob shouts and yells and tells her to leave and never return, she already knows what she'll do next.

She's known since she stepped on that train, since she joined the assassins, since Evie and Henry gave her that first mission, since she screwed up, since she killed Martin Church and Myrtle Platt.

"I'm going to kill him."


	17. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie and Jacob break the bank and Lynch makes his presence known.

There's an empty bottle in her hand and regrets in her head.

The pub she's in is dark and quiet, save for the two regulars at the bar and the elderly gentleman by the window. He's lowered over papers sprawled messily on the table, scribbling away at them and emitting the occasional hum.

Lottie's watched him closely for the past couple of nights, interested but isolated, and has eyed him from afar during his _meetings_ – she's heard the term 'Ghost Club' thrown around by the small gathering but she had rolled her eyes and pointedly looked away when the gentleman glanced to her.

She watches the people around her; the two regulars slurring their arguments, the three Blighter's stumbling in, the two Rooks in the back, sharing a toast. So far, she's remained unnoticed, hiding in the shadows at the back of her booth and nursing her wounds.

_Silence_ , she reflects again, for the hundredth time in days. _I gave him the truth and he gave me silence_.

She can still see his face when she closes her eyes, can still see his dark eyes that scanned her face, looking for a lie, a jest, and finding nothing but stark honesty and determination. She can still see his mouth, the way he mouthed _Victor Lynch_ , the way he recognised the name, the realisation that crossed his face.

_You know how to pick your enemies_ , he'd told her breathlessly and the tone of disbelief had her back rising, hopelessness and rage pushing to the forefront of her mind.

_I didn't choose him_ , she retaliated, tone bitter and furious, _he chose me when he murdered my father_.

She regrets those words now, regrets the way Jacob's face had closed off, morphed into rage to match her own, a sternness to his face that she's only even seen in his confrontations with the Blighters that had been directed at her instead.

Lottie sighs and waves down the bartender for another bottle.

She sits quietly and alone for five minutes before she's bothered. She sees the red coat before anything else and then her eyes are drawn over the hulking bald man seated across from her, his red haired companion smirking cruelly as she surveys the empty bottle sat innocently on the table.

"We carry a message for Mr Frye," says the brute, and his smile is wicked and missing four teeth.

Lottie has no time for this. "Tell him yourself," she snaps and her tone brooks no argument, her gaze turned pointedly to the scratches in the table. Her hands rests on the hilt of her Kukri, strapped easily to her thigh.

The woman is reaching into her jacket and Lottie sees the pistol before anything else, the silent threat on the woman's blood red lips that still hold their smirk. The Rooks in the back corner have perked up, interested, and Lottie watches recognition flare in their eyes.

Lottie should be more worried about the Blighter's in front of her, the situation she's currently in, but instead all she thinks is, _I liked this pub_.

"I don't like repeating myself," snarls the brute. He leans forward on the table, forearms the size of Lottie's head.

"Neither do I," she says softly.

The Rooks are on their feet. Lottie draws her Kukri as the woman draws her pistol, ducking from the booth and into the bar, slicing upwards and across the woman's chest. She cries out, stumbles back, and Lottie whirls on the brute, hidden blade drawn and resting on the throbbing vein at his neck.

She leans in close, so as to be heard over the woman's pained cries, and hisses, "Deliver your message to someone else."

The brute nods hastily and scrambles from the booth when Lottie steps away. He helps his companion to her feet and they flee the pub. Lottie settles back in her booth and takes another swig from her bottle.

The Rooks are watching her, weapons drawn and frozen in place. Lottie does not give them the time of day.

She drops some coins on the table, takes one last swig of her bottle, and disappears into the night.

* * *

 

Another week passes without much excitement.

Lottie hears from some Rooks in passing that Jacob is investigating the Bank of England but she doesn't linger to find out more, sure that as soon as they realised who was eavesdropping on them, their Boss himself would be on her tail.

She's heard those mutterings too, of Miss Crawley the missing ally; of Miss Frye's rage and irritation, of the arguments breaking out between the twins, more frequent than ever; of Jacob Frye's orders that the Rooks keep their eyes peeled for a mistake that needs tending.

The pub she's in isn't as nice as the last, a run-down looking place with lively music and crowds of Rooks. The drink is flowing, the wits on their way out the door, and the Rooks haven't glanced once towards the back corner to the lone assassin, hood drawn over her eyes and a half-empty whiskey bottle sitting in front of her.

_Hide in plain sight_ , Lottie thinks ironically, eyeing the green jackets thrown and abandoned over the backs of chairs, the play-fights breaking out, the jokes and laughter.

She hears the cheers before she sees him, feel those dark eyes scanning the room and finding her, and she doesn't get up to leave like she should, like she _knows_ is wise.

Lottie sighs, takes another swig of the bottle before her, and settles in her chair as Jacob Frye strides towards her.

"Finally stopped running, eh?" he greets, lowering his broad form into the booth and settling across from her.

Lottie's answer is to take another swig of whiskey, to glower at the other assassin when he swipes it away from her. He brings the bottle to his lips, downs the rest of it, and sets the empty bottle between them.

"You're astoundingly difficult to track down when you don't want to be found," he comments nonchalantly, and Lottie sees the Rooks glancing their way, sees the wide eyes that find her seated there.

Lottie smirks; she can only imagine what Jacob is thinking about his Rooks now, about their competence.

"I think that's the point," she says to Jacob.

Jacob huffs and leans back in his chair as he removes his top hat. He sets it on the table beside the empty bottle, covering some of the scratches on the wooden surface, and watches her coolly, with all the time in the world.

Lottie tries to keep her expression blank but her thoughts are a buzzing and wild mess inside her head; she's waiting for the inevitable, the questions about Lynch, about her plans, about her affiliations with the assassins, her allegiance to them.

She's never lied to them, not really, she thinks, because they've never doubted her, never questioned why she would seek them out. Jonathan Crawley sent her, that was their assumption, with his dying words he sent her to his allies, to safety.

But the truth is Jonathan Crawley was dead before he could say anything to her, and Lottie's vengeance is the only thing she thinks she can do to make him proud of her, to redeem herself for her lack of interest for all these years.

Jacob waves down a Rook and rattles off orders to him, a mug of ale for himself and a glass of water for Lottie, as if she needs to be sobering up.

She rolls her eyes. "I am not drunk."

"Exactly what a drunk person would say," is the biting retort and he won't look at her.

Lottie starts to slide out from the booth. "I will not be _mocked_ , Mr Frye –"

"Sit down."

His voice has taken a turn for the dark and intimidating, low and rough, the voice Lottie recognises from his interrogations of Blighters, his demands for information. But Lottie is no unsuspecting Blighter, and the man across from her is not the leader of the Rooks but another assassin like herself, and she will not be ordered by him.

She opens her mouth to tell him so but he beats her to it, saying, "I find I'm quite tired. Hunting you down is exhausting."

Lottie settles back in the booth. "I can imagine."

She can't, but she can imagine he feels the same way she does; she's tired of avoiding him, just as tired as she was the last time she had to do so, and not for the first time she wonders why it's her first instinct – to bolt when things get hard and wait until she's gathered her courage and thoughts enough to accept his confrontation.

"Victor Lynch," he starts smoothly, as the Rook returns with the drinks. He slides the dirty glass of clear liquid towards Lottie, and watches her until she takes a tentative sip of the lukewarm water. "I've Rooks stationed nearby, they tell me he's holed up in the Strand, surrounded by his best Blighters."

"Oh?"

Jacob nods. "It won't be easy to reach him."

Lottie blinks, once, twice, and finally says, "You're helping me?"

"Of course."

Lottie doesn't feel grateful; she feels wary. She knows Jacob, knows how he works, and she's waiting for the catch attached to this information.

Sure enough, in true Jacob Frye fashion, it arrives.

The other assassin downs his drink and watches her face closely as he says, "Twopenny's robbing the back of England."

Lottie chokes on her own saliva. Jacob rattles off a quick retelling of the events leading up to his finding out this information, to Plutus being Twopenny, to Starrick's involvement.

"Twopenny's stealing from the people of London," Jacob finishes smugly, "and using the money to fund Starrick's empire."

Lottie nods slowly. She can't see the connection this has to Lynch, to her plans for vengeance. Jacob continues, his lips tilted upwards in an aggravatingly smug smirk, looking _oh so proud_ of himself.

"You scratch my back," he says and Lottie recalls that day on the balcony across from Lambeth palace, watching Martin Church stalk through the gardens. Dread pools in her gut; she remembers all too well how their last partnership ended.

Jacob seems to have read her mind. "It'll be different this time," he's quick to reassure. He crosses his heart. "Promise."

Lottie's not convinced.

"If I say no?"

Jacob's shoulder rises in an imitation of an unconcerned shrug.

"No consequences," Jacob says. He picks at the dirt under his nail, oozing the nonchalance he wore when he first sat before her. "But any information I receive about Lynch will remain between myself and the Rook who unearthed it."

Lottie grinds her teeth together, and Jacob remains unscathed by her heated glare. Her hands clench into fists under the table, out of his sight. She refuses to let him see the position he's put her in; she knows the Rooks loyalty to their Boss, she's not even sure she can convince Jack and Bonny to go back on an oath sworn to Jacob Frye.

Lottie huffs, and takes another drink from the unsatisfying glass of water before her.

* * *

 

Frederick Abberline is waiting patiently for them to arrive, smoking from a pipe and eyeing the Bank of England with a speculative eye. He's well-dressed, nothing like the man Jacob had told her to expect on their journey, with a thick beard and eyebrows to match.

Jacob greets him with a genial, " _Freddy_ ," and Lottie watches the Sergeant sigh in aggravation. His eyes turn to her, curious, and Lottie holds out her hand.

"Charlotte Crawley," she says kindly, forcing the indifference to which has coated her words to Jacob to leave her voice. The sergeant takes her hand and shakes it firmly, and if Lottie's not mistaken he looks comforted by her presence.

"Miss Frye has told me much about you," he says and Lottie takes that for the explanation it is.

She nods and her smile is fleeting. "All good things, I hope."

His answer is a smile and a curt nod. He lifts the pipe to his mouth again and Lottie's reminded of her father, the earthy smell of his study that comforted her after a long day. She turns her eyes to the balcony overlooking the square, forcing herself to repeat over and over, _a means to an end, means to an end_. Jacob has promised her his aid and that of his Rooks after this – one step closer to Lynch, to the vengeance that's been slipping from her grasp.

"Well?" asks Abberline to Jacob, "What say you?"

Jacob sighs, shakes his head slightly. "You're not gonna like it," he says and Lottie's reminded of her own reaction to the news. She's not entirely sure how a police sergeant will react.

"Now see here," says Abberline sternly and he fixes Jacob and Lottie with a stare that matches his tone. "I am graced with the Abberline family's robust constitution." He hooks his pipe in his mouth once more.

Jacob cocks his head to the side, and doesn't look at Abberline as he says, "Twopenny's robbing the Bank of England."

This conversation reminds Lottie very much of her own, the lack of tact on Jacob's part as he announces the news as easily as conversing about the weather.

Abberline splutters and chokes and his pipe nearly slips from his grasp. "The governor of the bank?" he echoes with a gasping breath. "I think I might need to sit down."

"There's no time," Lottie cuts in regretfully, at the same time Jacob says, "Bastard's probably deep in the vault by now."

Abberline considers these words, and finally says, shaking his head, "However you get in, I don't want to know."

"Of course," agrees Jacob instantly, and then, urgently, " _but_ do you know _how_ I can get in?"

Lottie can see the battle on Abberline's face and for a second she's sure the sergeant will leave them to discover an entry route for themselves. Just when Lottie's sure Abberline is about to walk away, to demand that he remain completely innocent in the entire affair, he starts to tell them what he knows.

Lottie is not entirely convinced that they can pull it off: a bank manager, the only person in the bank with free access to the vault; a vault watcher with eyes like a hawk and the power to seal the door at the slightest suspicion of foul play; a guard captain closely acquainted with Twopenny.

"Mr Frye," says Abberline. His voice has turned cold and serious. "Please use discretion. The only way to implicate Twopenny is to catch him in the act. Do _not_ jeopardise him, _no_ big displays. _This_ is the Bank of England." Lottie bites her lip; this will definitely be difficult, she thinks, if Jacob has to fight every instinct in his body to be _stealthy_.

Abberline adds, "If you encounter any trouble, I'll be in the atrium." He pauses, then leans in to Jacob, "In _disguise_."

Lottie's a little sad she might not get to witness the sergeant's disguises for herself. Jacob had told her so much about it, sure that Abberline would be in one at their meeting. Instead, Lottie had met a police sergeant with passion for his job, well-dressed and groomed and serious.

Abberline passes her with a nod and a murmured, "Miss Crawley," which Lottie returns. She joins Jacob at the balcony, watching the noon sun casting its glow on the massive fortress of a building.

Lottie doubts they can manage it. Jacob claps his hands and an exhilarated grin crosses his face and _damn it_ but Lottie's heart skips a beat.

"Twopenny won't be leaving that vault," he says simply, with a slight turn of the head to see if she's paying attention.

He gestures lazily with one hand, inviting her to go first.

"Shall we?"

* * *

 

Lottie hates that she's all but forgotten why she's angry at Jacob.

She bumps the glass bottle in her hand against his beer amidst the shouting and jeering Rooks around them. She's not drunk, not yet, but this isn't Jacob's first beer nor his second or third, and she's amazed that he's still coherent enough to recognise her. The last time he'd had more than three beers, Lottie had stormed up to him and set him heels over head in front of the very people she finds herself surrounded by.

"To the people of London!" Jacob crows. He brings the bottle to his lips. Lottie smiles and mimics him.

This isn't what she set out to do, she thinks, setting the bottle on the bar top once more, watching Jacob and his Rooks. She didn't set out to find the assassins and liberate London, she didn't set out to join a gang or befriend any members of said gang. She wanted to remain detached, to train and hone her skills and leave when the time came.

Now she's astounded to realise she's _happy_ , content with befriending the Rooks and their Boss, content with the relationships she's built with Evie Frye and Henry Green, comforted by their support and kindness.

Jacob catches her dazed expression, lost in her thoughts as she is, and catches her elbow. He shakes her gently, pulling her back to the present and mistaking her daydreaming.

"Lynch will die, Lottie," he tells her. "We'll see to that."

More than anything, Lottie's content with the tentative friendship she shares with Jacob Frye.

She nods, trying to find the words but finding they've failed her. Jacob claps her arm, raises his fresh beer before her. Their bottles meet with a soft _clink_ , and Lottie hopes he can see her gratitude on her face.

Three more glasses of whiskey are poured and drank before Lottie realises there's some kind of disturbance by the door. Jacob's attention has been drawn by a Rook on his other side, speaking animatedly and with vibrant hand gestures that has their Boss grinning and returning the conversation full-heartedly.

Lottie slides from her stool and presses slowly through the Rooks, strangely drawn to the disturbance. There's a weight in her stomach, something pressing against her that feels almost like dread, but it can't be; there's nothing _wrong_. She and Jacob and the Rooks are celebrating a victory, a win for the assassins and the Rooks, the possibility of a gang war and another liberated district on the horizon.

"Nora's hiding," a Rook had told her earlier in the night. "The Boss has the bitch runnin' scared!"

Cheers had erupted following his loud statement, claps on the back of their Boss as Jacob smugly downed his first beer.

"I cannae let ye in, lad!"

" _Please_!" shouts a small voice and recognition flares at the back of her mind. "I need to see –"

"Lottie," calls a voice behind her. A hand tugs at her elbow, trying to draw her back. "You're not leaving so soon, are you? I didn't take you for such a lightweight!"

"Lad, listen-"

"Daniel?"

The little boy ducks under the large legs of the Rook guarding the pub door and Lottie nearly stumbles into Jacob when he wraps his arms around her legs and buries his head in her stomach. Jacob's hands on her shoulder steady her as she sways and she watches his expression sober, gentle, drunken glee morphing into wary alertness.

"What's this?" he mumbles. His eyes turn to the door, to the Rook standing guard, who sends his Boss a look full of equal confusion.

Lottie crouches before the little boy, brushing his rain-soaked hair from his face and wiping at tearstained cheeks.

"Daniel," she says gently, and she hears Jacob hushing the Rooks, shouting for silence. "Daniel, what's happened?"

A hush falls over the pub, all eyes on the little boy and Lottie as she calms him, wiping at his cheeks and coaxing him to be brave. Her heart pounds against her ribcage, her stomach churns, and Daniel's words are a whisper that echoes around the quiet room.

Jacob's barking orders and Lottie's sprinting into the thundery streets of the London afternoon, becoming as drenched as Daniel in only five minutes. Jacob shouts her name and she hears his footsteps on the cobblestones as loud as the thunder overhead.

The door hangs ajar and the silence is deafening, frightening, _sickening_. Tables are overturned, toys abandoned, and the back garden is empty, barren of the children that usually play there. There are shards of glass from the windows littering the floor, chairs broken and the kettle from the kitchen lies upturned in the hallway.

The door creaks behind her as Jacob enters, missing his top hat and his hair dripping on the dirty floor. His eyes are alert as he looks around him, taking in every little detail like Lottie, and following her to the kitchen.

"Millie," Lottie gasps.

The woman lies in a crumpled heap on the floor of the kitchen, next to the broken table and clutching her broom. Lottie would laugh if the situation wasn't so dire, recalling the woman's words – _I chased them off with a broom_.

Her broom wasn't enough this time.

"Oh, Millie," she murmurs. She grabs the washcloth from the floor beside the woman, obviously close at hand when everything had happened. She dabs at the cut on her forehead, wincing at the woman's shuttered intake of breath.

Mille mutters Lottie's name through a gasping inhale, eyes fluttering open slowly. Behind her, Jacob sets a chair upright and circles to help Lottie draw the older woman to it.

Lottie can't tell the difference between the chairs anymore; before she had known exactly which one had been _hers_. The one she had sobbed in that first night, the one Millie had sat her in to tend to her wounds, the one she had whined about her hangover in.

She's not sure if it's the same chair anymore.

"Blighters," says Jacob.

Millie's hand rests atop Lottie's grasping the cloth and pressing it to her forehead. She flinches, but doesn't tug it away. Lottie's hands drop uselessly to her side.

"I should have been here," Lottie whispers.

Millie reaches for her hand. "Now don't you be startin' that," she says and her voice shakes like Lottie's hands. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Daniel. Is he safe?"

Lottie peers uselessly at Jacob, realising in her haste to get to Millie that she left without checking on Daniel. Jacob nods and steps closer.

"The little lad?" he asks, and the smirk Lottie has become accustomed to is nowhere in sight. "He's safe with my Rooks."

Millie nods. She turns her eyes to Lottie and they're like she remembers, gentle and mischievous. "Well, he doesn't seem that bad," she not-whispers to Lottie and Lottie's face flushes with mortification. "From all you said I was expecting –"

" _Millie_ ," Lottie cuts in quickly, pleadingly.

There's a smirk in Jacob's voice, Lottie doesn't have to turn around to know that.

"No, please," he says, "continue. I want to know what else lovely Lottie's been saying about me."

"Another time," Lottie says sharply, trying in vain to cool her heated face. "Millie, the children, where are they?"

Millie's face pales. Her earlier humour melts away to panic and horrified realisation as she looks around her, taking in her ruined home, the destroyed furniture and silence.

"They took them," she whispers brokenly. Lottie's heart aches and she squeezes the other woman's hands as she repeats, "They took them."

"Where?" Jacob demands and Lottie can hear the fury in his voice, the tone usually reserved for Templars, for gang leaders.

"The factory by the waterside," Millie murmurs.

Lottie's heart drops like a stone to her stomach and her mouth is as dry as sandpaper. She remembers clear as day what Millie had told her about the factory – _children dropping like flies because of exhaustion_ – and she can hardly bear thinking about little Thomas and Bethany and Ethan, forced to work until they drop.

Lottie squeezes Millie's hands. "I'll get them back," she promises. "I will."

Millie returns the gesture. Her smile is shaky and broken but hopeful and her eyes are watery with tears that have yet to fall.

Lottie watches her throat work as she swallows, watches her struggle with words.

"There's something else, Lottie," she murmurs, and Lottie sees Jacob freeze, half way to the door, moving so silently Lottie would have hardly noticed if he hadn't stopped. "They told me something – gave me a message. For _you_."

Millie's words have her turning white as a sheet, her stomach churning and her legs shaking so much she falls to her knees, unable to support herself any longer. Nausea overcomes her and if not for Millie and Jacob, if not for the urgency of the situation, if not for the _children_ and Jacob saying her name, just her _name_ , Lottie would succumb to fresh and fearful tears. If not for Jacob and Millie, staring at her, _waiting_ , Lottie would flee, would forget everything she's worked for just to _get away_.

_It's too soon_ , she thinks _, I can't do this, not now._

"They told me to tell you," Millie says and she can't possibly know the gravity of the words she's speaking, she _can't_ , "that 'Victor Lynch sends his regards'."


	18. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie and Jacob free Millie's children, and Bloody Nora engages the Frye's in a gang war.

Jacob's hand is on her elbow, tugging her back before she can do something stupid.

Lottie has eyes only for little Ethan, writhing on the floor, and the Blighter standing over him, a slimy, weasel of a man with his fist clenched. Ethan's cheek is blossoming red and Lottie is seeing red, wanting nothing more than to bury her hidden blade in that Blighter's neck, over and over until there's no blood left in his body.

"Lottie," Jacob hisses and there's a warning in his voice she can't understand, a wariness so unlike him that she tugs her arm ruthlessly from his grasp and whirls on him.

"What?" she demands, and her voice is shaky with the fury raging within her.

Jacob doesn't remove his hand and his dark eyes are watching her closely, watching the narrowing of her eyes, the down tilt of her lips as she glares. His hand squeezes her elbow, gently, in what Lottie would understand as comfort in any other situation.

But here, now, in this situation where he's standing between her and killing that weasel-y Blighter that's just struck a _child_ down, he's _in her way_ and she can't have it.

She tugs her arm away again, breathing heavily, chest heaving and eyes wide as she stares at the other assassin.

For a long while, neither of them move.

And then Jacob says, "Let me get the Rooks –"

"There's no time for that," Lottie cuts in furiously. Strands of her blonde hair have fallen in her eyes and she blinks rapidly.

"Lottie," Jacob says again, pressingly, and she dodges his hand that tries to grasp her elbow again.

"I can't wait," she tells him, bitingly, "find the Rooks if you like, but I'm not _waiting_."

There's an open window, a few feet from the weasel who hit Ethan, and Lottie's throwing herself from the rooftop and from Jacob, thinking nothing of the danger of this action, of her training, and thinking only of that little boy who's afraid and bruised.

She let them down once, all the children and _Millie_ , and she can't do it again – _not again_.

Ethan lets out a startled squeak when he sees her, but his nod is curt and eager when she lifts a finger to her lips, bidding silence. She's encased in shadows, hood drawn over her head once more, and the weasel stalks towards Ethan, to the little boy who's frozen in place with his eyes on her and a shovel held loosely in his hands.

"Oi, you," says the weasel, and Lottie hates the way Ethan flinches, the whitening of his knuckles as his grip tightens on the shovel in his hands.

_A little further_ , Lottie thinks, and Ethan's eyes are wide and fearful as they dart to her once more. Lottie's hand clenches. _There_.

A high-pitched squeak escapes the weasel's throat as Lottie's hidden blade catches him in the back, her hand steadying his shoulder while his strength begins to fail him. Lottie doesn't help him to the floor as she knows she should, as she _should_ because it's their _way_ , she owes it to this man whose life she has just seen fit to take.

But she's fire and fury and _rage_ and the last thing he deserves is for anyone to hear his final words, to be given his last rites when she'd watched him hit a child before her and instilled fear into the hearts of the others.

The weasel blinks slowly, the blood draining from his face and paling his skin, and Lottie watches coldly, feeling more detached from the act of taking this man's life than she feels she ought to. Isn't it part of their Creed, she wonders again, to _feel_ the lives they've taken? Isn't it part of the Creed to learn from their deaths?

With one last heaving breath, the weasel stills and moves no more, eyes staring to the left, to the window she's clambered in. One hand lies outstretched and blood-covered, the other clutching the wound at his back.

"Here -!" shouts a voice, surprised, and as Lottie whirls, reaching efficiently for a throwing knife at her thigh, she sees the Blighter, drawing a pistol.

She remembers at once the pistol Evie had gifted her but she's reluctant to use it, reluctant to draw attention to herself. She's no brawler, not like Jacob, and she doesn't get a thrill from partaking in a fight where the odds are _not_ in her favour.

The Blighter, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to draw attention to himself, to set Lottie firmly in a position where she cannot win. The pistol is level with her head and Lottie's crouched and ready to duck –

Jacob launches himself through the open window and onto the unsuspecting Blighter, driving his hidden blade brutally into the neck and forcing him to the floor. He crouches over him and Lottie can hear Ethan's elated and breathy gasp of, "Mr Frye!" as she forces her racing heart to calm and her shaking hands to steady.

Jacob looks uncharacteristically serious as she straightens and settles his gaze on her. Lottie doubts he's managed to get the Rooks and thinks it's probably her fault, getting caught so early on, throwing caution to the wind and forgetting her assassin training in favour of acting irrationally.

She's acting like him and he like her, and the role-reversal is dizzying and dissatisfying.

Then Jacob smirks, eyeing little Ethan at her side and somehow Lottie starts to feel better, more confident.

He says, smirking impishly, "So impatient." He turns his attention to Ethan. "Wait here until it's safe."

Ethan nods dutifully. "Of course, Mr Frye."

It's the most obedient Lottie's ever seen one of Millie's children be and she's thrown momentarily, staring between the Rook leader and the little boy, visions suddenly encroaching on her mind of an older Ethan, with a mess of hair and a green jacket, following Jacob into a brawl and joking in the midst of it all.

Jacob removes his top hat, still miraculously atop his head through the whole scuffle, and hands it to Ethan. Dirty hands grab the rim and hold the hat tight to his chest like it's the most precious gem in the world.

"Hold on to that for me, won't you?" says Jacob, and Lottie's thrown once again by his gentle tone, watching him and seeing him in a new light as he draws up his hood to match her.

There's something about watching him draw his hood that sets Lottie's heart pounding and the palms of her hands sweating. Jacob's never acted like an assassin with her before, she realises with astonishment; the last couple of times she's worked with him he's never seen the need to remove his top hat, always found a way out of situations that call for a stealthy approach.

Their infiltration of the bank saw them stumbling, quite literally, on a secret passage to the vault which negated Jacob's use of his hood.

Seeing him like this, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his hood and looking so _dangerous_ , more so than when he's charging unthinkingly into a brawl with his Rooks, more so than when he's interrogating an unsuspecting Blighter, Lottie's struck once again the fluttering in her stomach that she _knows_ isn't nerves.

Lottie distracts herself from the tilting of his lips by reaching out to grip the metal bannister of the walkway, peering cautiously over to the floor below. She can feel Jacob's eyes on her back, impatiently waiting for her to act.

Finally, she mutters, "I count at least eight Blighters."

"Perfect," says Jacob. "An even split."

Lottie shoots him an unimpressed look. "There's the foreman to consider as well."

Jacob nods once. "Very well. We grab him last, interrogate him for Lynch's whereabouts."

Lottie returns the curt nod he had given her. Her eyes drift to Ethan, standing nearby and clutching to Jacob's hat. She tries to smile reassuringly to him, but her anger is dissipating ever so slowly, replaced instead by nerves and the fear she had felt at hearing the message left for her with Millie.

Jacob's hand brushes hers. "One thing at a time," he says. He peers over ledge, pauses to think, and then reaches for Lottie's thigh. His fingertips dance along her trousers as he swipes a throwing knife from its sheathe, nodding discreetly for Lottie to join him. "Those two," he whispers.

Directly below them are two Blighters, short and thin. Behind them are three of Millie's children, heaving at the coal pile with shovels too big for them. Lottie reaches for a throwing knife of her own, and returns Jacob's discreet nod with a determined one of her own.

"Don't miss," Jacob instructs in a jovial undertone, a mocking dare that has Lottie's nerves fizzing anyway.

_Don't miss_.

The words echo in her mind, a reminder of her failures from the beginning, of the patient in the asylum being electrocuted, her screw up that could have ended in his death.

_Don't miss_.

"On three," Jacob murmurs. Her breath hitches, but she nods her understanding and lifts the throwing knife, the small blade feeling unnaturally heavy in her hand.

The two Blighters crumple almost in unison, legs giving way beneath them. One falls forwards, the other backwards, but the kill is silent and the other Blighters remain oblivious. Lottie's breath is a shaky exhale, a struggle to remain confident in her skills with her anger dissipating so.

Jacob chuckles lightly. "Not losing your touch?"

Lottie swallows and forces a wry smile to lips, transforming her face to one of confidence despite the turmoil she can feel broiling inside her.

"Of course not," she tells him. She's sure he can see right through her but he says nothing.

He grins and behind him, stalking the walkway, Lottie can see the foreman, wearing an expensive looking coat the colour of cream and a top hat that hides his dark hair, tied at the nape of his neck.

Jacob notices that her eyes aren't on him but rather behind him, and she doesn't look at him as he reaches for her arm, squeezing the flesh gently to draw her attention, to draw her eyes away from the foreman – from her lead to Lynch.

Her anger that had been leaving her is returning again, burning below the skin, a fire behind her eyes, red that encroaches on her vision and blinds her to all else.

Jacob's saying her name, tugging more firmly on her arm, but she can't see his eyes in the shadow of his hood, can't see what he's thinking, how he's looking at her.

She pulls her arm from his grasp.

"He's mine," she says, bypassing Jacob and making her way to the stairs, eyeing the foreman as he disappears into his office at the top of the factory.

Jacob says her name again, and he sounds exasperated, she's sure he does, and the words are on the tip of her tongue – _this is how everyone else feels dealing with_ _you_ \- but eventually she hears him grumble and curse under his breath.

"Fine," he hisses at her back. He goes towards the window where he'd clambered in and saved her before, and whistles as loud as he dares. Lottie freezes, but the machinery in the factory seems to have prevented any of the Blighters from hearing.

She steps closer to the other assassin, peers at the street below, and she should have _known_ that's why he didn't follow immediately.

There are Rooks on the street, hovering like flies below the window, but when they see Jacob, a ripple goes through the small crowd; elbows are jabbed into guts, heads are slapped, and the Rooks are staring up, eagerly awaiting orders.

"Lads," Jacob calls, "let's have some fun."

Lottie smirks in spite of herself, watching the Rooks playful bat at each other and reach for their weapons. They disperse but moments later, Lottie hears the shouts from below, the gunfire and the screams, the slicing of skin.

"Let's not dawdle," says Jacob, and there's a breathless elation to his voice, even though he's still there with her and not in the fight. "I believe the foreman has some information we might find useful. Shall we?"

The foreman matches Lottie in height but not in build; he's a thin man, gaunt in the face and with sunken eyes. Jacob forces him back into the office as he tries to leave and Lottie blocks the door, standing menacingly and glowering at him.

"Now Mr Foreman," greets Jacob roughly, and there's a growl to his voice that has Lottie's heart doing palpitations, "who brought those children to you?"

"I- I- _please_..."

"A name," demands Jacob, and he shakes the foreman roughly, once, twice, until the foreman is a pleading mess begging for mercy.

Lottie rolls her eyes; Jacob hasn't even done anything to warrant his fear. Perhaps, she thinks, Jacob's name proceeds him.

"Nora," the foreman gasps and it's not the name Lottie was hoping for, not even close. She straightens from the door, steels her spine and her hidden blade pops free with a _snick_ , threats on her lips.

Jacob raises a hand to stop her, casts her a glance over his shoulder that has her hackles rising. She's not a dog, she thinks furiously, and he can't just –

"Lynch," Jacob says next, his voice still low and growly. "Where is he?"

The foreman gapes. "I don't know who-"

Jacob sighs in faux-fatigue. He casts a glance at Lottie and she meets his eyes, glowering and rage filled, before he suddenly lunges at the foreman, grasping the lapels of his coat and throwing him at Lottie's feet.

The foreman quivers before her and she feels powerful, glaring down at him, a weapon in each hand and a smirk on her lips. He holds up his hands, pleadingly, fumbling for words and finding none.

"Are you sure you don't know who we're talking about?" asks Jacob behind him. He's leaning idly on the desk, examining the bracer on his arm casually, giving no indication of the weapon there. The foreman looks shakily over his shoulder at him, his body wracked with shivers and nerves, and Lottie clears her throat.

The point of her hidden blade rests atop the foreman's racing pulse.

"Victor Lynch," she says slowly, steadily, betraying none of the rage she feels beneath the skin, the fire that licks through her veins.

The foreman swallows. Lottie's blade nicks the skin.

"Th-there was a man, aye," the foreman stutters. "He left before I'd even got the –"

"Where did he go?" Jacob demands. He stands straighter and his own hidden blade slides into sight. Sweat coats the foreman's forehead as his lips quiver and tremble.

"I- I heard he has a house," he says shakily, "in the –"

"The Strand," Lottie finishes for him.

She doesn't need to hear anymore; her blade sinks sickeningly easy into the neck of the foreman, and his surprised expression haunts her as he gargles and reaches for his neck, trying in vain to stop the blood flow. He crumbles forward and the blood pools around him, out and out until it's nearing her boots and Jacob's tugging her away to avoid it.

"Requiescat in pace," Lottie says indifferently, watching the man's hands until they've stopped twitching, until his eyes have stopped blinking and he's not reaching for her anymore.

"The Strand," muses Jacob. Lottie watches his face as he turns his gaze to the open door, to the Rooks ambling up the stairs towards them and Jack and Bonny at their head. "I think it's time to expand." 

* * *

Evie is waiting for them, stern of face and standing beside a plump and well-dressed man. They're deep in conversation and Lottie's no interest in interrupting them.

Her rage has subsided – for now.

Millie's children have been returned to her, the orphanage is back in working order. Millie is still shaken and Lottie was loath to leave her. She wished for nothing more than to stay with her friend, to fuss and coddle as Millie would – has done in the past – but the woman would have none of it.

"Go," she said, pushing at Lottie's arms until she was finally forced out the door. "I'm fine, Lottie. I'll not have you fussing over an old bird like me. Good day to you – and to you, Mr Frye."

Jacob had tipped his hat politely, in an imitation of manners Lottie hadn't known he possessed. He had smiled at Millie, warmly, completely unlike the cheeky, naughty smirks Lottie was used to the Rook leader wearing.

Then, he said, "If we ever meet again, you must tell me all the embarrassing stories you know about Lottie."

Millie had smirked, and Lottie had never seen the woman look so _evil_ before. "I know plenty, Mr Frye."

"That settles it then," said Jacob. He jabbed Lottie in the ribs with his elbow and Lottie shot Millie a pleading and mortified look.

She's no idea what she's done to deserve it, but Millie has invited Jacob to tea with her – after his Rooks help her fix up the orphanage after the Blighter's attack.

"Evie," greets Jacob and there's a distance to his voice as he addresses his sister that Lottie never imagined would exist between siblings.

"Jacob," returns Evie. She inclines her head to the plump man beside her and he departs. "Bloody Nora has challenged us to a gang war."

"Challenged _me_ , I think you mean," corrects Jacob smugly. "I've been eliminating the Blighters – where have _you_ been?"

A muscle in Evie jaw twitches – she's gritting her teeth, Lottie can see, and obviously she wants to retaliate.

But she doesn't.

Instead she smiles.

"Very well," she says, "I'll just stand back and let you handle this, shall I?"

"Do what you like," retorts her brother uncaringly, daringly.

Jacob saunters off, surrounded by the Rooks, but Lottie lingers, hovering near Evie. The other twin looks displeased – not at Lottie, but at Jacob. She seems dazed, staring at her brother's back as he strides away, but when she notices Lottie she seems to snap out it.

She smiles gently. "Clara sends her thanks," she tells Lottie, "word has reached her of what you and my brother" she turns her gaze to Jacob once more, as though she can't quite believe it "achieved by shutting down that factory."

Lottie inclines her head, humble, and says softly, "It wasn't anything, really. I promised Millie that-" Lottie catches herself. "I promised someone very dear to me that I'd protect the children."

Evie's expression is as soft as Lottie's words. She nods, reaches out with her hand to take Lottie's elbow and Lottie meets the elder twin's kind dark eyes – so like Jacob's but also _not_.

"You can trust me," Evie says. "Whatever you need."

The words warm Lottie's heart, set the underlying rage she feels scampering backwards. She's sure Evie's words aren't meant the way Lottie interprets them – _you can trust me_ , she can trust _Evie_ , _should_ have trusted Evie and not Jacob, maybe she'd have Lynch by now if she'd chosen the _assassin_ of the two – but she appreciates them nonetheless.

"Thank you, Miss Frye," she murmurs and she _means_ it.

* * *

Bloody Nora stands atop a carriage, brandishing a black pistol and glowering at them with dark eyes hidden behind a curtain of dirty black hair.

"I don't have time to deal with street rats," she crows, and her voice reminds Lottie of Myrtle Platt, a screeching, irritating sound, "string 'em up!"

Jacob leads the Rooks like a pack of wolves, and Lottie's surrounded by green and staring down men and woman in red. On the carriage below Nora is the clenched Blighter fist; behind Lottie is the Rook in flight carrying its rook piece.

"The Blighters have nothing on us," calls Jacob, striding to meet the first of the Blighters daring enough to challenge _Jacob Frye_.

The fight is bloody and messy and there's more blood on Lottie's hands and heart by the time Nora steps into the fray. Lottie seeks out Jacob instantly, red on all sides and on his face, turning to greet Nora with a sardonic grin.

His uncaring, fearless countenance infuriates her but Lottie loses sight as she ducks the cane of a Blighter enforcer, swinging wildly, desperately at her head. She feels it overhead, feels it disturbing her drawn hood before she gathers her wits and remembers herself.

Her heart is pounding and her stomach is churning and she's so _afraid_ , not for herself but for –

She's catches sight of him again: a blood speckled top hat that Nora throws from his head with a lucky swing of a black Kukri; Jacob swings at her with his own Kukri, a more controlled manoeuvre that has Nora staggering backwards, clutching at the wound on her chest and reaching instead for her pistol; her foot connects with Jacob's stomach, he stumbles backwards, bumps into a body lying at his feet –

Lottie's heart is in her throat. Nora's lining up the shot, Jacob's reaching into his coat for his pistol and his name catches in her throat, it's _too late_ , it's over, he can't reach it –

A shot rings out but Lottie's fingers have just brushed her own pistol and it's not her. Lottie strikes down the Blighter impeding her vision, pushing through Blighters and Rooks alike, striking down any who get in her way.

Jacob is frozen, watching Nora and for a single, heart-stopping moment, Lottie feels like the earth has fallen from beneath her feet. She can't understand the feeling, can't understand why she's so damn _afraid_ , but Jacob's not moving, his hand still clutching his Kukri while the other holds his pistol, pointed at Nora's feet – it wasn't _him_ , _it wasn't him_.

Evie joins the fight with a skill and efficiency Lottie's only ever heard about from her father; the skills of a master assassin, trained from childhood and honing and perfecting abilities every day.

Nora clutches the bullet wound on her chest, resting just above the split flesh torn apart by Jacob's Kukri. She falls to her knees, staring at Jacob's feet, mouth opening and closing but unable to produce any words.

She falls forward, dark hair shielding her face and her other hand still clutching tight to her pistol.

The Blighters begin to surrender, one by one, until the Rooks are standing tall and cheering, clapping their boss on the back, offering their thanks to Evie Frye for her aid. Weapons are thrown at Lottie's feet from Blighters standing nearby, seeing her clothes, the assassin symbol, the Rooks shouting to her and celebrating.

She pays them no mind.

She has eyes only for Jacob – alive and whirling on his sister, no trace of a glare and only irritation. The twins are speaking, words firing back and forth, until Jacob glances up and meets her eyes, sees her terrified expression.

She thinks he looks confused, at first, but then his returning smile is cocky and reassuring. He sheathes his Kukri and reaches to the ground for his blood-spattered top hat, setting it in its rightful place and providing all Lottie needs to know everything's okay.

The Frye's climb gracefully atop the carriage Nora had stood proudly upon and all eyes turn to them. Lottie lingers at the back of the crowd, the Rook symbol behind her left shoulder, wary eyes of remaining Blighters casting over her every now and then.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls Jacob Frye, his head held high and wearing a serious expression Lottie knows is reserved for these kinds of things. "We are Jacob and Evie Frye and as of this moment you all work for _us_."

There's a moment held in baited breath as the remaining Blighters glance at each other, their red coats in a sudden minority, surrounded by green on all sides. Until one, a tall man, bleeding from the shoulder, limps forward and hesitantly grasps the green coat held in the hand of a Rook.

Cheers and shouts of encouragement erupt; more and more Blighters turn over their red jackets, tossing aside the red and black in favour of green and yellow, and Lottie can't help the pride she feels, watching Jacob leading the Rooks, taking control of another borough and dismantling Starrick's empire one leader at a time.

She's no doubts in her mind that he can take the Strand but neither Jacob or Evie are going to be the ones to strike down Victor Lynch.

That victory, Lottie resolves, is reserved for her and her alone.


	19. Fade Into You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie and Jacob have a heart to heart in the dead of night and the Rooks pay up on bets.

Lottie's never been alone in front of the Templar board before.

Piece by piece, Starrick's empire is crumbling around him. Evie is closing in on Lucy Thorne, intending to rectify a mistake, she'd told Jacob with little patience, and Jacob is making moves into Westminster – and parliament.

The Rooks have very little influence there, Lottie knows, and for Jacob to begin strategizing their movements, organising their manoeuvres with careful consideration is something Lottie had never known the man could do.

Westminster's Blighter influence is larger than the Strand's by a long shot, and while Lottie is growing impatient to reach Lynch, impatient to return the borough she once called her _home_ , the streets she once walked with no fear, she can understand the importance of discovering the identity of 'B'.

She can't understand how Jacob can so easily sleep here, before the board; she already feels tormented by it, she can hardly imagine what it must be like to lie before it every night.

Her eyes are drawn over and over to Pearl Attaway – to the portrait of the gentle woman with the strict countenance and the bright and inspiring eyes. The _cousin_ of Crawford Starrick, she recalls with some amazement, and she can't begin to imagine how Jacob must have come across that news.

She wonders: did her father have a board like this one? Was this board created with some input from Jonathan Crawley?

Between her legs, her hand cradles the neck of an open whiskey bottle, the liquid still reaching the top, having only touched her lips briefly before she made her way here.

The dining car was near empty; Jack and Bonny were nowhere in sight, out celebrating their victory over the Blighters and Bloody Nora in a pub in London with their boss. She's grown used to their company, grown used to their conversation in the late of the night, and it just isn't the same as it used to be months ago, when she took the bottle and drank alone in the darkness of her car.

Why she came back to the train with Evie rather than go with Jacob and the Rooks to the pub, she can't remember, but she thinks it's too late now; she doubts their celebrations will still be going this late.

She doesn't know which pub they went to anyway.

Lottie sighs tiredly and brushes her blonde hair from her eyes. It falls in soft waves over her shoulders, free from the braids that held it back from her face earlier, and her coat and weapons lie abandoned on her bed. All she has, sitting with the throw from the sofa tucked around her shoulders, is the fresh whiskey bottle she grabbed from the bar and herself.

Lottie's eyes are drawn once more to the late Pearl Attaway, to the purple of her gown and the jewels hanging from her ears and neck. Lottie can't see any resemblance whatsoever to Crawford Starrick from this portrait, can't see any trace of the harshness she's heard of the Templar Grandmaster.

How was Jacob so taken in by her? How did he manage to let his guard down so?

Jacob Frye, so brash and reckless, so keen for a fight. Jacob Frye, who might've died had Evie not been there. Jacob Frye, Lottie's ally and tentative friend...

Because that's what they are, she thinks – she's _sure_ that's what they are – and her reaction to his near-death is perfectly plausible. Her friend might have died, and she couldn't reach him to prevent it, to _help_ him; the suffocating she'd felt had simply been the reaction anyone would have felt to their friend's death.

She's not convinced, no matter how much she wants to be.

Her reaction to Jacob and Nora's fight, the churning of her stomach, the tightening of her heart, her blood pounding in her ears, had not been normal. She's watched him fight over and over again, and never worried that he might die. Jacob's always had a leg up on his opponents and the thought of someone besting him – _nearly_ besting him, because Lottie knows it was a fluke, it must've been – has never occurred to her before.

Until it had and he had nearly died.

Lottie doesn't want to think about any other times Jacob's come close to death, she doesn't want to even consider the possibility that she knows is there. It's an occupational hazard, she thinks; _assassins court death_ , her father's words ring in her ears, the words he'd told her when she was a child and new to all, eager to learn, to participate, to join the Brotherhood.

Oh how things changed in the years to follow.

Lottie's grip tightens on the neck of the whiskey bottle and she worries at her lip, turning her gaze from the portrait of Pearl Attaway to the dirty carpet. Agnes had bustled past her earlier, muttering in her broad scots about getting in touch with her sister about the carpets and the drapery, and had stopped only to give Lottie a brief greeting and a scolding about her dirty boots being on the furniture.

A chill accompanies the newcomer to the car. Lottie doesn't look up, expecting it to be a Rook who'll leave her be soon thereafter without a word.

Instead, there are heavy footfalls on carpet and a voice drawing her from her thoughts.

"This is a surprise," muses Jacob Frye idly, leaning against the doorway and watching her closely. There's still blood on his top hat and coat and a cut on his right cheek. Lottie takes him in like a breath of air. There are no words.

"Hello," she says softly.

Jacob's eyes drift the bottle in her hand and Lottie watches his expression morph from amusement to concern.

"Why is it," he says, striding closer and throwing himself onto the old sofa beside her, "that every time I see you there's a bottle in your hands and a flush to your cheeks? I haven't pushed you to alcoholism so soon, have I?"

Lottie hadn't realised she was blushing and Jacob's quick notice of it has her cheeks heating some more. She wills herself to calm down, struggling to understand the way she's feeling and the sudden appearance of it.

He smirks at her, not unkindly, and downs near half the bottle at once.

Lottie quips, "And you say _I'm_ turning to alcoholism."

Jacob's shoulder lifts in a half-shrug, unconcerned. There's a flush to his cheeks as well, one that comes only from drinking far too much, whereas Lottie's barely touched that bottle, something she hasn't done for the past few months.

Jacob is approaching drunk, Lottie reflects. She's approaching something else entirely.

"What are you doing up so late?" He pauses and his eyes flicker to the clock at the desk. "Early."

Lottie returns Jacob's half-shrug with a small and sad smile. Her eyes flicker once more to the portrait of Pearl Attaway. Jacob follows her gaze.

His smirk is contagious. "That's dangerous," he says, the bottle at his lips, "falling in love with a dead woman."

Lottie's cheeks redden further but she forces herself to retort. "Have experience in that area, do you?"

"There is much you don't know about me, dear Lottie," he returns, voice soft and growly in the flickering gaslights of the train car.

Her heart skips a beat when he says her name, and she looks away. He's said her name a million times before, she thinks irately, what's become so different that she reacts this way now?

"You haven't answered my question," Jacob probes.

Lottie reaches for the bottle and takes her first swig of the night, her _only_ swig of the night.

"Can't sleep," she murmurs, handing the near empty bottle back.

It's not a lie, not really; true, she hasn't _tried_ to sleep yet, her thoughts keeping her awake and pressing tauntingly at her. She worries what she'll dream, worries that her dangerous thoughts will keep her awake like they had after her father died, like they continue to do.

She wonders, dismally, turning her gaze to the floor once more, if she'll ever get a restful sleep again.

Jacob downs the rest of the bottle and abandons it on the floor, shooting it a betrayed look as though he's not to blame for its emptiness.

"Penny for your thoughts," he says, and she turns her eyes to his face, meeting those dark gems. Before she can open her mouth to shrug it off, to stop him from pressing, he says, "Don't you dare."

She's reminded suddenly of his asking after her well-being all that time ago, after his assassination of John Elliotson, when they'd been on their way back to the train and he'd asked her then; _plenty of things_ , she'd told him, _none of them worth wasting your time on_.

_Perhaps I want to waste my time_ , he'd replied steadily, with no hint of mockery to throw her off.

She wonders if it still applies – thinks it must, otherwise he wouldn't be asking here and now, even as half-drunk on drink and victory as he is.

Lottie doesn't want to be honest; she knows Jacob well enough to know that saying she was thinking about him, _worrying_ about his near-death earlier in the day, will do nothing but stroke an already inflated ego.

So, she settles for, "Those we've lost."

It's not a lie, but nor is the truth.

They lost three Rooks in the war with Nora and her Blighters, but that's not what Lottie's referring to; she's lost so much more than that and so has he.

She's lost her life before, those she once called friends, _simplicity_ of being Charlotte Crawley, a woman of standing, and she's lost her _father_.

Jacob knows a little something about that, she reckons.

There's silence for a good long while. Jacob shifts on the sofa and his leg brushes hers; an innocent gesture that sets Lottie's skin alight where they touch. She risks glancing at him, sees his eyes are turned darkly towards the Templar wall, his lips set in a hard frown.

Lottie swallows her fear and forces herself to be brave.

"Your father," she starts slowly, and she struggles to keep her voice steady as Jacob's eyes turn towards her. She can sense the danger, the alarm bells warning her to stop, to turn away, to apologise and never bring him up again. Instead, she continues, "What was he like?"

At Jacob's stony silence and pointed turn of the head, turning his glare towards the Templar wall once more, Lottie realises she might have pressed too far. She swallows and gathers her courage once more.

"My father taught me everything I know," she admits, delicately brushing her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "He wished for me to..." the words are stuck in her throat but she forces them out anyway. "It was his wish that I take his place one day."

Jacob's sudden turn of the head tells her that her words have made the impact she wasn't hoping for; guilt boils inside her, a painful reminder having surfaced. Her father would never see her become a Master assassin, would never see her take on her own apprentices one day.

Lottie's lips quirk. "A truth for a truth?"

Jacob huffs a laugh, bitter and amused, and leans back on the sofa. His eyes drift now to the dirtied carpet, to Lottie's feet tucked demurely under her.

"Father taught me all I know too," he admits, and he adds, bitingly "what little good it is."

Lottie recalls Evie, her fervent belief in the Creed, in her father's teachings, in the words Lottie hears her whispering, murmuring to herself when she falters: _never allow personal feelings to compromise the mission_.

Lottie's father and Jacob's father seem to have had the same beliefs and teachings, because her father used to tell her that too, when Lottie was angry, when she'd hit that boy for staining her dress, when Lottie could make a _difference_.

_Never allow your personal feelings to compromise the mission, Charlotte_ , he'd told her, like it was an excuse to allow suffering when she could end it.

She understands Jacob's feelings perfectly.

Lottie tugs the throw around her shoulders tighter, words sad and tired and she says, "I never wanted this life." She pauses, then elaborates, "I wanted to be a _lady_."

Jacob's laugh matches her own; disbelieving and mocking, but Lottie aches for that time; when she was ignorant to the going-ons of the city, when she would sit down for tea in the parlour with girls who would not dare converse with her now, idle gossip that Lottie thinks of little now that she has more pressing concerns.

Oh, how she'd love to go back to that life; to her father being alive and hiding his resentment and disappointment in her. She remembers clearly the expression on his face when she'd told him she was finished with the assassins, that she couldn't believe in something that prevented acting for the freedom of the people they claimed to be hoping to protect.

"Merely eliminating the oppressor does no good to anyone, Charlotte," her father had pressed but Lottie would hear none of it.

_He's wrong, after all_ , she tries to tell herself, but her thoughts drift to Elliotson, to the aftermath and the medicine crisis in Lambeth; to Attaway and the chaos in the transit world after her death; to Twopenny and the bank's near collapse.

_Evie_ , Lottie thinks, _if not for her, London would be in anarchy._

Evie, who has taken her father's lessons to heart. Evie, who has steadily come behind Jacob – and Lottie, she thinks waspishly, because she's had as much hand in creating these messes as he has – and fixed everything. Evie, who has a plan for her plans and who never acts without careful consideration.

"A lady," Jacob says, considering, "I can hardly imagine." He pauses to breathe a chuckle. "Charlotte Crawley, lady of London. I can see you now, sitting down to tea and hearing all the gossip."

"I did," Lottie tells him, deadpan, but she smiles when Jacob barks a laugh, elation crossing his features. Lottie's heart skips a beat.

"Oh, what I wouldn't give," he gasps.

"It wasn't terribly exciting, if I'm honest," Lottie reveals, and while she enjoyed the leisure of it all, the teas and gossip, there's no lie to her words.

There was no exhilaration to be had in sitting at a table for an afternoon, perched like colourful birds, while Anne and Kate discussed their potential suitors, or while Beth brought up her latest affair with a gentleman from the working class.

_Quick and flirty_ , she'd say, with a sweet smile _, give him hope that there'll be more and then announce that you're engaged. Does the trick, my dears. Scratches the itch, so to speak_.

No, Lottie finds exhilaration now, in the drawing of her blade as she plunges into a fight beside this man at her side; in the liberating of London from Starrick's influence; in the protection of Millie and her children; in the feeling of _usefulness_ that she finds has come with standing by Jacob Frye and being an _assassin_.

"I can't imagine it would be," Jacob says, drawing her attention. "Why sit in a parlour all day when you can be out having fun and killing Templars?"

Lottie rolls her eyes. "As if you have always been doing this."

"I have," Jacob tells her smugly and Lottie doesn't believe it for a second. Her face must say it all, because Jacob continues, "I had no time for my father's _lessons_. Point me towards a good brawl and I was there instead."

"That doesn't surprise me," Lottie deadpans.

Nothing has changed, evidently, she muses, and it's hard to imagine that he's lying when he still acts that way, still acts as though he has something to prove.

They're more alike than Lottie realised; both with something to prove now, Lottie to her father, to his memory, to _herself_ , and Jacob to his sister, to the Rooks, and to his own father, still trying to prove his worth to a man who might've never appreciated him.

Lottie's heart feels heavy and she recalls those drunken words she'd uttered to him that night, when he'd held her arms and steadied her, as she'd cradled the whiskey bottle in her shaking hands.

_My father's dead_ , she'd told him brokenly.

_Mine too_ , he'd replied, just the same.

"I miss him," she whispers, and the Templar board blurs in her suddenly watery vision, tears kept at bay for months making their appearance. Jacob's jaw is clenched and she can see his pointed and hard stare from the corner of her eye.

"Me too," he says.

His hand comes down gently on Lottie's shoulder, a single touch setting her skin alight once more, a single comforting touch that has her turning her head to him slowly. Her hair tumbles over her shoulder and into her face, tangled and messy, and he reaches to brush it from her eyes. His touch is gentle, the pads of his fingers brushing her cheekbone, and he's all she can see, engulfing her vision as a single tear makes its way down her cheek and to her chin, lingering there until she wipes it away with the throw.

She doesn't have time to feel embarrassed at their close proximity, at the way his body has leaned forward towards hers, before he's pressing his lips to hers. She can smell the whiskey on his breath as his lips press hungrily at her own, biting her bottom lip as his fingers tangle in her hair.

Lottie returns the kiss ardently, her hands releasing the throw around her shoulders to grip the hand that caresses her neck, and he's all she can smell, all she can taste, consuming her every sense. She aches for more, feeling free and light and her worries disappearing. She can think of nothing but him, but the smell of him, gunpowder and ash and whiskey, and the feeling of his hands on hers, of his lips on hers, wanting her as desperately as she craves him.

There are voices approaching and the moment is lost with their cheer, with the Rooks that stand in the entry way and spy the two of them, intimately close and breathing heavy and hard. Lottie's blush has returned, her cheeks darkened red as she looks anywhere but at the crowd that have gathered, Jack and Bonny in their midst. Jack is holding his hand out and notes are being pressed into it, Bonny begrudgingly handing one over as well.

"Yes, alright, alright," Jacob says, but there's an amused smirk on his face as he gets to his feet and starts to shoo his gang from the car. "Get out, the lot of you."

Cheers and whistles continue to fill the air until Jacob slams the door shut. Lottie's smile is relieved and happy as she gathers the throw around herself once more and the sudden turn of events has her heart feeling light.

"You're blushing again," Jacob notes from the doorway. Lottie fans her cheeks, an apology on her lips that are still pulled into a bashful smile as she recovers from the interruption. Jacob shakes his head. "You're beautiful when you blush."

He approaches slowly and Lottie feels like a child again, elated and happy. No thoughts of London or Starrick or Templars or Lynch cross her mind, only this man before her, taking her in like fresh, clean air.

"Now, where were we?"


	20. A Life Before

Henry keeps her busy with Templar targets in Westminster and the Strand, in preparation for Jacob's next mission.

It's almost like he knows what has occurred between she and Jacob, because the distance that's been placed between them is torturous. She hasn't seen him for days, plotting and watching as they have both been, and when they do see each other it is a brief 'hello' in the mornings surrounded by the Rooks and Henry and Evie.

She's studying the hallucinogenic darts attached to her gauntlet when Evie strides into the train, nose buried in Edward Kenway's journal and a frown across her face. She hardly glances at Lottie, too intently focussed on whatever it is she's found, and that suits Lottie just fine. Lottie's spent four days studying Wallace Bone's movements and those of his bodyguards – she's ready now, ready to eliminate him at her earliest convenience.

"Lottie," Evie calls suddenly, and a frown still mars her beautiful face, though there's curiosity there too. Lottie's waiting for it, waiting for the inevitable, _what happened between you and my brother_ , but instead she says, "There's a name that keeps cropping up in Edward Kenway's journal – I was wondering if you might be able to help me."

Lottie gets to her feet, nodding in intrigue, and comes to stand over Evie's shoulder, peering down at the elegant scripture of the Master Assassin's hand. There are drawings and sketches, and a painting of a woman with a mass of hair that shines like copper in the gaslights.

There are three or four of these little paintings, all spaced out over the next few pages, each with small changes made, as though the Master Assassin was struggling to remember her face, forgetting the details and hoping to recall what she looked like.

"Who is she?" Lottie asks aloud, fingertips brushing one of the sketches, following the line of her face and the curl of her hair.

"Amelie," Evie says thoughtfully. She pauses. Then, "Amelie Crawley."

Lottie's face turns sharply towards Evie's, shock and intrigue crossing her face in equal measures. Evie's thoughtful expression remains dutifully in place, but Lottie thinks she can see a flicker of surprise behind the other assassin's eyes, as though she had expected a different reaction from Lottie.

"I wondered if you know her," Evie muses, "but I see that you don't."

Lottie shakes her head. "I've never heard the name," she admits. "The closest I can think of is my great-aunt, but she was Annabelle, not Amelie."

Evie hums. "There's no mistake," she says, flicking through pages of the journal. "Her name is written on every page, at least two dozen times." She pauses. "I had thought she might be of some relation to you."

"Yes," Lottie ponders. She studies the small drawings once more, trying and failing to see some kind of resemblance to herself, to find some explanation. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you, Miss Frye."

Evie waves dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous," she says. "And I do think we've bypassed the formalities, Miss Crawley, don't you?"

There's a mischievous twinkle to her eyes that has Lottie's face going red with mortification. She struggles to remain composed.

"Ah, yes," she says. "I believe we have, Evie."

She smiles and it transforms her face, makes her appear younger, lighter. She says, "Good," and then it's gone, replaced by pensive seriousness as she returns her eyes to the journal.

Lottie finds her own eyes drawn towards it once more, unable to put to bed thoughts of _Amelie_ – had she been disowned by the family? Had her father simply neglected to mention her? Was her father aware of her existence at all?

What had happened to have her removed from existence entirely, forgotten by those she might have called family?

Or did the woman just take _hide in plain sight_ far too seriously?

Evie shakes her head and closes the journal, tucking it away in the drawer in her desk for further consideration later. Lottie's fingers twist at the hallucinogenic darts once more, itching to return to Westminster and complete her objective, but reluctant to leave now that her thoughts have been consumed with that of Amelie Crawley.

_The journal_ , Lottie thinks _, I need to get a look at it alone_.

Her eyes drift subconsciously to the drawer again and the question itself is on her tongue; _might I borrow it from you, Miss Frye? To consider in private just who this woman is_?

But she remains silent and instead starts to formulate a plan to _borrow_ the journal when Evie's not looking.

* * *

There's a haystack at the end of the path he continues to pace, too close to his bodyguards for her liking but the perfect place to strike; inconspicuous, hidden.

He looks nervous for reasons Lottie doesn't care enough to think about, and the white cape over his left shoulder flickers in the wind, distorting the image of the Templar cross. It also draws her attention to it, and the attention of the innocent civilians going about their day.

Lottie's eyes flicker towards the brute by the haystack. He wears a pair of brass knuckles that catch the light and would no doubt hurt _very much_ should they connect with her skin, and he's picking at his nails. Across from him stands a group of four Blighters, standing idly in a loose circle and muttering to each other in low voices.

Lottie catches the occasional dirty looks sent towards Wallace Bone. She can figure out what they're saying without having to get too close.

She lifts her arm and lines up the shot, the neck of the brutish man in her sight.

The dart pricks his neck and she watches the scene unfold; the hands that reach up to grasp the small metal dart, the confusion as he looks around himself, threats on his lips and demands, until finally she sees the induced rage overtaking his senses.

The four Blighters are aware now, watching the brute fearfully as he charges at them-

_Oh_ , Lottie winces sympathetically as the first punch connects, loosening the teeth of a poor sod who got too close. Blood sprays the walls, weapons are drawn, and Wallace Bone stays carefully away from the fight as Lottie grapples across.

Her stomach twists as she dives from the roof, performing her leap of faith expertly and remaining undetected amongst the chaos. She holds her breath anyway, and remains as still as possible, peering over the top and out through the hay, watching the final moments of the fight and the brute that collapses from exhaustion after all is said and done.

She watches Bone, stalking forward, eyeing the bodies littering the floor, the blood coating the ground, the wounds on the faces of his bodyguards.

_Just a little further_ , Lottie thinks, as Wallace Bone takes one step, two, until he's within reach. _Just a little..._

The startled squawk that escapes his mouth as his shoulders are grabbed would amuse Lottie in any other situation, with any other person, but instead she forces her expression carefully neutral, and demands the answer to the question she's been waiting to ask him for days.

"Where is Victor Lynch?"

Her hidden blade rests against Bone's pulse point, a mimicry of the way it had rested against the foreman that week ago. Bone doesn't quiver before her like he did though, and she can feel his hand going for a weapon despite his body being trapped beneath her own, trapped in this precarious situation.

"As if I would tell you," he hisses, "assassin _bitch_."

"I try to be nice," she sighs, with a roll of her eyes.

She stumbles out from the haystack, wiping down her coat and ruffling out her hair, drawing her hood over her head once more. Her bracer is splattered with his blood, the blood of a Templar whose body won't be found for a long while yet.

She's picking straw from her hair for miles after she's left the area, paying no attention to where she's walking but knowing that she subconsciously recognises the path she's taken. She redoes the braid of her hair and draws down her hood again, sure she's safe once more, and sure that she's tidied her hair and removed all evidence of the rough landing in the straw.

"An awfully compromising position, wouldn't you say?" a voice says from the dark of the alley, "Dragging the man into a haystack. People will _talk_."

Lottie can't help the smile that crosses her face as she turns to face Jacob, emerging from the shadows and wearing a cheeky smirk of his own.

She shrugs. "People will talk anyway," she tells him, "might as well give them _some_ thing worth talking about." She pauses, watching the cocking of his head as he agrees with her. She taunts, "Are you jealous, Mr Frye?"

"Of Wallace Bone? _Please_."

His hand brushes her cheek as he pulls free a piece of straw, tangled in her hair. The touch feels strangely intimate out in public like this, and Lottie's excited by the idea that anyone could turn the corner and see them, so close to each other, half shadowed by the darkness of the alley.

"I have a lead on _B_ ," Jacob tells her, a touch breathlessly. "Care to join?"

_Yes_ , she thinks _, I would_.

But what she says is, "I can't. I have other targets that need taking care of."

Jacob looks dubious. "In the Strand?"

"What?"

And it's true, she realises, looking around her for the first time since leaving Wallace Bone in that haystack. Across the street from her is the old Hatter, where her father used to take her once a month; and the seamstress just up from him, where she had her gowns ordered and created. Two streets over is where Beth lives, where she'd be invited every Thursday for _tea_.

"It hasn't been that long, has it?" muses Jacob, "You can't have forgotten this place so soon. You're getting old, Lottie."

"Perhaps I am," she murmurs in return.

Turning the corner at the top of the street are a group of Blighters, big and hulking and somehow so much _stronger_ looking that the Blighters Lottie's used to seeing. She wonders if Lynch's influence is creating this, making her fear what she knows she can defeat already, or if the Enforcer at the head of the group really is something to behold.

Jacob stiffens behind her as the eyes trail over the two of them.

"Time to go," he says quietly, and his arm comes around her waist, dragging her gently and firmly towards him while he raises his arm. She's used to the feeling of flying now, to the quick ascent from the ground to the rooftops, but her heart races and her stomach flutters with butterflies at Jacob's touch.

The sun is high in the sky over the Strand when Jacob sets her on her feet. She can see the Houses of Parliament from here and the temptation is too much; she would love to go with him, follow his lead with him, but now she's _here_ , _home_ , and nostalgia is pressing at her from all sides.

She aches to see her old house, to see those she once called friends, to see for herself if she can find where Lynch is hiding.

Her eyes turn away from parliament, towards the Alhambra and, just beyond, _home_. She hasn't forgotten her way, she could _never_ forget her way, not there.

"Lottie," Jacob says. He takes her chin, coaxes her eyes back to his gently, as though reading her mind. His eyes are shaded under the rim of his top hat, his lips curved up in a smirk that she's so used to seeing on his face. This close she can see the other scars of his face, the lighter ones, as well as the more obvious ones; the scar through his eyebrow and the one of the left side of his face, through the stubble of his jaw.

Her hand traces it, ghosting over the flesh, while his eyes watch her expression carefully. He's all she can see, feel, smell once more, just like he was those nights ago, and she's thinking perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to go with him.

Her home won't be going anywhere, after all. It's stayed in place for six months while she's been dallying about London, killing Templars and eliminating the oppressors who stand in the way of liberty.

"It can wait," she whispers, leaning up to press her lips gently against his. "It can wait."

He smiles at her, a smile without cheek or mocking, and bends his head to return her kiss with an impatient one of his own. 

* * *

" _B_?" repeats the plump man incredulously, scrambling on the path before them and cutting his palms as he tries to get away. "My name's Herbert!"

A muscle in Jacob's jaw ticks. He grinds his teeth together, and while Lottie knows the action is supposed to make him look as intimidating as possible, all she can think is that he looks more handsome than ever from her point of view; standing in profile, the late afternoon shining on the buildings behind him.

"Then why are you following the Prime Minister?"

"It's just a job, sir," Herbert chokes, clutching his abdomen and starting to sit up. "Some old bloke paid me to-"

A single shot rings out, startling Lottie from her reverie, and forcing her eyes to the rooftops she'd been admiring not a minute before. She sees the woman, sees her straightening and tucking her rifle over her shoulder.

Jacob turns his eyes to the sky impatiently, and sighs in frustration. The woman strides away, her back turned to them, and Jacob takes a step back, watching her go.

"Smug _bastard_ ," he hisses in a breath and Lottie can hear the anger in his voice, can see it in the clenching of his fists and the narrowing of his eyes.

Lottie doesn't need to be told to follow suit when Jacob begins to give chase; she's already at his side and bracing herself for a quick ascent.

The sniper is waiting for them as soon as they've clambered on to the roof of the church and Lottie hasn't even got her feet under her before Jacob's shoving her down and out of the way, strong arms around her waist and breath hot on her cheek and a gunshot echoing in the air above them.

The bullet hits the spot where she'd been standing not a second before.

"Thank you," she breathes, shoving lightly at his shoulders. He's displeased at the situation, she thinks, probably as much as she is because she wants nothing more than to stay in that position with him and lie there on that church roof.

She hears him muttering under his breath, hears another shot ringing out, and she hurriedly gets to her feet to follow as Jacob sprints ahead, ducking bullets and diving out the way. She follows at a distance, worrying at her lips as each shot gets closer and closer, anxious of the possibility of a stray bullet hitting Jacob.

She catches up in time to see Jacob tacking the woman in a manner similar to the way he had tackled her before; it's rougher, Lottie notices with a grimace, watching as the woman's head smacks against the roof tiles.

Jacob drags the semi-conscious woman to her feet, reaches up to adjust his top hat, and drags her to the edge of the roof.

He shakes her awake.

Lottie kicks absently at the rifle by her feet, dropped and abandoned in the skirmish. It's a beautiful weapon, long and elegant, like the woman who wields it. The Blighter sniper is dark haired, with a face that's all angles and long lashes that flutter on her cheeks as she blinks into awareness.

She jolts, tries to get her feet back on solid ground, and realises quickly the predicament she has found herself in.

"Bloody 'ell!" she shrieks, her hands clutching at Jacob's wrists where he holds tight to the lapels of her coat. "Where did you come from?"

"Well I was born in Crawley but that's by the by," replies Jacob smartly, breathlessly, and Lottie files that information away. His voice turns hard. "Who are you working for?"

The woman shoots a worried glance to the ground below and then to Lottie standing at Jacob's shoulder, watching the exchange silently. Jacob shakes her again.

"I- I never got his name," the woman gasps and Lottie begins to see genuine terror crossing her features. "Old chap, big moustache," she lists and there's a shake to her voice. "Wore some kind of a uniform; Hussars, maybe."

"What's his game?" Jacob pushes next, after listening aptly to the woman's fretful answer.

Her expression matches the terrified shake in her words. "Please, he'll kill me."

Jacob doesn't pause to think. "And a three-story drop will shatter your legs and send you to the workhouse. Difference is you can _run from him_."

He accompanies his words with a threatening shake and a loosening of his grip. The woman reaches to grab his wrists once more and if Jacob feels her fingernails digging into his flesh, he doesn't show it.

" _Tomorrow_!" the woman all but shouts, eyes wide and darting between Jacob and the ground so far below. "My lads are going to attack the Prime Minister's carriage on the way to Parliament."

Jacob takes a step back, two, and throws the woman carelessly to the rooftop, metres away from Lottie's feet. She scrambles to her feet and runs, never pausing except to throw a frightened and wide-eyed look over her shoulder to ensure Jacob isn't following.

Jacob's smirk is haughty as he turns his gaze towards Lottie, still dark and thrilled. Lottie can see the rapture still coursing through his veins, can see it all over his face.

"Perfect," he says breathlessly, and Lottie's not so sure he's talking about the information he's just received.

She raises her eyebrows and tries to seem unimpressed. "A little harsh, wouldn't you agree?" She gestures to the busy street below with a nod of her head. "Threatening her?"

Jacob scoffs, unconcerned. "She'll recover."

He starts to walk closer, until he's standing before her again and if Lottie lifts her hand she'd be able to take his. She resists, staring up at him innocently, and hoping her face is giving no indication of her thoughts.

She can still remember vividly the feeling of his arms around her from before, the way he'd thrown his body over hers and tackled her to the ground. She hadn't even noticed the woman aiming for her, and wouldn't have noticed until it was too late.

Lottie realises she still has a lot to learn.

Jacob's fingers brush her wild and straying hair from her face once more and Lottie realises she'll never be able to tame it, not really, but if it means Jacob will continue to touch her like this, so gently, so caringly, she doesn't mind.

"You mentioned something about other targets?" he breathes, infuriatingly close to her lips, distracting and lovely.

She nods wordlessly.

He chuckles. "Names?"

Lottie rolls her eyes and steps back, hating the loss of his heat and touch but frustrated and trying to make a point. "Target, singular. Beatrice Gribble; has plans to kill the Queen's consort."

Jacob listens, intrigued, and finally says, "What's the Queen done to wrong her?"

"She exists, apparently," quips Lottie. "She wanted to be one of her ladies-in-waiting but the queen wanted nothing to do with her."

"So she joins the Templar Order to get what she wants," finishes Jacob. "What an exciting tale you spin, dear Lottie."

Lottie rolls her eyes at his jest. "Almost exciting as the life I lead," she jokes in return. Then, "Although I do believe it would be more exciting without you in it."

Jacob clutches his heart. "You wound me," he gasps. "Let's not kid ourselves, your life would be painfully boring without me in it. You'd be sitting in your gowns, sipping your tea and listening to idle gossip. ' _Oh yes, dear Beth, please tell me more about your dalliance with the staff cook_. _It's oh so interesting_.'"

"Beth never had a dalliance with the staff cook," Lottie deadpans and Jacob's shocked expression makes it all worth it. "That was Kate."

Talking about them makes her miss them and she's eager to distance herself from this conversation, from these thoughts, as soon as possible. In the months previous, she hasn't given herself much time to consider them, to think on them, but being so close to home, to Lynch, is doing nothing but remind her of what she's lost; Sarah and John and Noah and Beth and Anne and Kate.

It makes her think about what's happened to them, if they're alive and well; or if Lynch discovered their plot, their part in Lottie's escape and killed them for it. She doesn't want to linger on dark thoughts like this, not when Jacob is standing before her, cracking jokes and being his charming self, and reminding her that life without him _would_ be boring.

If her father had never died, she's not even sure she would have met him.

If Jonathan Crawley were still alive, it's possible she'd still be ignoring the plight of the assassins in this war, and equally possible that she'd be sitting down to tea every week and listening to frightfully boring gossip that she has no care for.

If Jonathan Crawley were still alive, it's possible that Lottie would be courting another man, a man much different from Jacob in far too many ways to count; a man less exciting, less handsome, less charming, less _thrilling_.

Her eyes drift to him again, standing a few feet away from her with the sun at his back and smiling like he can't quite believe she's still there.

No, she decides, she doesn't like to think about that life before, not anymore.

She doesn't want to think of a life without Jacob Frye in it.


	21. In the Pursuit of Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie and Evie visit the place Lottie once called home in search of Jonathan Crawley's journals.

"Edgar Collicott," says Evie Frye, and Lottie stands by her side and eyes the man upon the roof, striding back and forth with his bodyguard following close at his heels.

The bodyguard is a tall woman with dark hair, pulled away from her face while she clutches to a rifle in her hands, surveying their surroundings with a keen eye that Lottie has no doubt she's been trained to have.

"What information is he carrying?" Lottie asks, turning her body slightly to address Evie.

"Henry's lead was unclear," Evie says calmly, "but whoever he's meeting here is expected promptly and we must act quickly."

It's the third time Evie has told Lottie this; she knows the plan like the back of her hand but Evie seems adamant that she must repeat it at every possible opportunity, as if it's a lucky charm to ensure its success.

The two assassins are crouched on the tower above their targets, hoods drawn as the study them, waiting for their opening.

Lottie is struck again by how different the Frye's are; Jacob would have leaped in and fought his way out by now, Lottie at his back, blade drawn and body alert. Whereas Evie has barely moved in the hour since they've arrived here, perched on this rooftop and _waiting_.

Lottie's getting a little impatient, if she's being completely honest with herself. She's sure they've had more than one chance to complete their task and leave, but Evie always raises her hand, a silent gesture Lottie understands as _wait_.

And then she says the words Lottie's been waiting for since clambering onto this rooftop, since crouching and watching Collicott and his bodyguard and learning their patterns.

"Now."

* * *

Lottie forces herself to swallow her pride and just _ask_ , because Evie is never far away from Edward Kenway's journal and it's frustrating trying to sneak it away when it's never out of the other assassin's sight.

There's a gentle _clink_ of china as Lottie sets her tea cup upon its saucer and forces a calm expression on her face – she has a right to ask, she reasons, whoever this strange woman is she bears her name, bears her father's name – but that doesn't make her feel any better.

Evie pauses thoughtfully with her teacup at her lips, eyes watching Lottie keenly, expectantly, knowing before Lottie does that she's going to speak.

"Did you find anything else?" Lottie asks, the words leaving her mouth in a rush before she can stop herself.

"About?" presses Evie, setting her own teacup down gently on the saucer before her, showing no signs of distaste for the chipped and well-used china.

For a good few seconds Lottie considers dismissing the question, considers shaking her head and deciding the answer – whatever it is – does not matter; what can she do now, for a woman who has probably been dead for near a century?

But then she says, quietly, timidly, "About Amelie Crawley," because even if the answer isn't important, she feels like she owes it to the strange, lost woman in the journal. She knows a little of what it's like to be lost, she thinks, and this woman, possibly her _family_ , deserves to have someone know about her, to be thinking about her.

Evie shakes her head, once, but she frowns at the scratched table and starts to pick at it with her nails.

"It's odd," she admits. "There's no mention of her in any of the Assassins archives. It's as if she was made up by him, a figment of his imagination."

Lottie doesn't believe that. She tells Evie so.

Evie nods. "I agree," she says, "but Amelie Crawley is a mystery – and the journal is all we have to understand her." She stops scratching at the table and her eyes are set fixatedly on Lottie's face. "Kenway mentions another Piece of Eden in his journal, only briefly. Perhaps it has something to do with the mystery."

"Perhaps," Lottie murmurs.

She turns her eyes to the window, to the empty cobblestone street outside the small café. Seven months ago, Lottie would have sat in this same café with other woman of her social class, idly gossiping and whispering behind their hands. Now she is here with another assassin, discussing a lost woman and a legendary pirate and assassin from before their time. It's all so strange, she thinks; seven months ago she would never have imagined her life turning out this way.

"It seems wrong," Lottie says, "that no one knows of her. Perhaps if we could access my _father_ 's journals..."

Evie's interest is piqued; Lottie can see it on her face. She sits straighter, more attentive, and if Lottie had known before that mentioning her father would get her some more standing with Evie, she'd have done it a lot sooner. Evie leans forward on the table, elbows on the table and chin in her hands as she ponders, trying in vain to hide the excitement Lottie can see on her face.

"Do you think they will aid us?" she asks after a moment and she leans back again, eyes watching Lottie's face as the blonde woman tries to form an answer that won't disappoint.

"I can't say," she admits at last, scratching at her neck. "He was very secretive about these things, especially after I expressed my desire to, uh, well..." Evie nods in understanding and sympathy and Lottie forces herself to continue. "But he was always writing whenever I entered his study. He was quick to shield them from me though, so there could be anything written in them."

She used to be bitter about that, as though her father was suspicious of her motives when she entered his study, but she can see now that he used to shield what he'd written from her to protect her; if she remained oblivious, she thinks he believed, then she could not be implicated.

How wrong he was.

Retrieving the journals will mean returning to her home, she thinks, and she's not sure she's ready for it, not yet, even if it's been seven months. But her father's journals may have something useful buried within, something to aid them in their fight.

She tells Evie this and watches the other assassin as she considers, brushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear where it's fallen from its braid. Her lips are pursed and Lottie can see the wheels turning, the plans forming; Evie will not pass on an opportunity to gain more information, more knowledge to aid them in their fight against the Templars – and their hunt for the Piece of Eden.

"If your father knew something about Amelie Crawley," Evie thinks aloud, "do you think he would have recorded it in these journals of his?"

"It's possible," Lottie says.

Evie nods. "If there truly _is_ another Piece of Eden we need to be worrying about then we'll need all the help we can get." She pauses and takes a deep breath. She watches Lottie, ruminating. "Will you join me, Lottie?"

She wants to say no, but the thought of Evie rummaging through her father's things unattended makes her stomach roil. No, even if Evie is someone she respects, even if she knows Evie won't nose about in things that have little to do with her, have little to do with the _mission_ , she can't let her go alone.

"I will," Lottie says, as strongly as she can. "I've lived there all my life; I know it as well as I know myself."

Evie nods and starts to get to her feet. Lottie gathers her courage and follows.

* * *

It's nothing like she remembers.

The stone white walls are glum and grey and Lottie's not sure if they've always been like that and she's been blinded by happiness, by contentment and just never seen them for how they are before. The windows are broken and shards of glass line the carpet below the windows of the downstairs hall.

The paintings that hung on the walls lie ripped and torn on the floor as Lottie cautiously pushes open the door, hanging off its hinges and creaking absurdly loudly. She doesn't remember it doing that, can't remember it doing that.

Her boot crushes one of the paintings on the floor, one her father treasured, she realises; the landscape of a mountain range he visited in Scotland, where he met her mother as the two of them pursued the same target. The corners are ripped, dirt and dust coats every inch of the canvas, making it near impossible to distinguish – Lottie would have never known what it was if not for the memory of her father, if not for _knowing_ him.

She wants to take it with her but she's aware of Evie at her back, the master assassin surveying her surroundings and her father's teachings, Evie's father's teachings; _never allow personal feelings to compromise the mission_.

Lottie takes a deep breath.

"His study is upstairs," she says quietly, stepping over the ruined painting with her heart in her throat and tears stinging at her eyes. "This way."

The carpet's been upturned in places, as though the Templars who looted their house – because it has to be them, she can't think of anyone else it could be; who _else_ would search so uncaringly through someone's livelihood? – and when she glances into the lounge, she can see their sofa overturned, her father's chair before the fireplace in pieces. Cushions lie on the opposite side of the room, tossed haphazardly aside during the haste to find whatever it is the Templars were searching for.

Lottie's heart hurts; her home, lying broken, destroyed, with her father dead and their staff missing. She feels a failure; she's barely thought of Sarah and John and Noah, hardly stopped to wonder if they made it out alright, if they're _alive_.

Her father would have sought them out immediately, had he survived. Her father would have ensured their safety and passage from London.

Lottie did nothing. Lottie fled and sought out the assassins, sought out those who could help her achieve her goal.

"It's the room at the end of the hall," she tells Evie, who has remained unbearably silent throughout it all. Lottie places one hand against the ruined wallpaper by her side, the other on the cabinet that's been moved, placed at an angle to the wall.

She takes deep breaths, hates that she's falling apart so easily in front of Evie. She draws down her hood, curls of blonde cascading across her face and hiding the tears pricking at her eyes.

"I'll..." she stops to clear her throat, to clear the emotion from her voice. "I'll be along shortly."

Evie remains silent, but Lottie can imagine she's nodded. She says softly, "Take all the time you need," and there's no sound of her feet on the destroyed carpet as she leaves but Lottie knows she has.

The door to her right is ajar, and Lottie can see the familiar lilac wallpaper through her tears, can see the painted flowers across the ceiling. In front of the door lies one of her gowns – her favourite, she notes, with the pale pink and the white lace on the sleeves – muddied by footprints and left carelessly on the floor.

She pushes open the door hesitantly, uneasy and unsure, and her hands are trembling and each step is a chore.

The window is cracked in three places, each pane streaked with dirt and sill coated in a thick layer of dust. Her clothes lie strewn across the floor, empty drawers from her dresser lie abandoned on the floor by the wall and broken apart. She can see the dust in the air, disturbed by her presence, and she makes her way slowly, hesitantly, into the room.

The covers of her bed dangle from the posts and the mattress has been overturned like everything else in her home, revealing the carpeted floorboards underneath, the empty space underneath her bed where she used to keep her chest of mementos – the same chest that lies empty by her wardrobe. Its contents are spilled across the floor, crushed under the boots of countless others, broken and irreparable and unrecognisable.

The last time she had stood in this room, everything had its place and she was preparing for bed, preparing to ready herself for the day after, when she'd be meeting the girls again, for another long afternoon of idle chatter and little thrill.

The last time she had stood in this room, she had heard a disturbance in the parlour, heard heavy footfalls ascending the stairs and throwing open the door to her father's study.

The last time she had been in this room it had been to make the decision to tip toe towards the light from the opening of her father's door, thin and bright, and to eavesdrop on another conversation.

 _For a young lady who has expressed her interest to remain away from the affairs of the assassins_ , her father had told her before _, you show much enthusiasm for my work_.

Evie holds three leather bound journals in her hands when she pushes open the door and finds Lottie standing in the centre of her old room, staring at nothing at all, tears in her eyes as she stands amidst her old life, destroyed and lying at her feet.

"Lottie," she starts softly, but she doesn't quite seem to know what to say.

Lottie tries to pull herself together and thinks she must look a state – tears in her eyes and trembling like a leaf over things she can't have anymore. Her eyes land on the journals in Evie's arms and she steps forward, reaching for one, holding it tightly in her hands to stop them shaking.

"You found them? That's a relief."

Her voice is wobbly but she needs something to distract herself before she bursts into tears in front of Evie, in front of this woman who she greatly respects.

Evie nods once. "He hid them in much the same way Edward Kenway did," she explains and Lottie's grateful to her for the distraction, for not bringing any more attention than necessary to Lottie in this state. "In a way only an assassin could find."

Lottie nods. "I hope they provide some further insight."

"Me too." Her free hand rests on Lottie's forearm, drawing Lottie's attention to the gentle and kind face, to the expression upon Evie's Frye that Lottie has only seen directed towards children, towards Clara when she was sick. "I think we're finished here. Shall we?"

They pass the lounge once more and Lottie glances in as the light catches on the glass case of her father's Kukri blade, still sitting in its place on the mantle, untouched amidst the destruction that surrounds it. She stops, standing in the doorway – another door off its hinges, only just hanging on – staring at the glass case, astounded that her father's treasured weapon remains amongst the looting and feeling the heavy weight of the Kukri at her side, the gift from Henry, given to her by Jacob.

It's her right, she thinks, her father's Kukri blade is hers now. There's no one to stop her from taking it, no one to stop her from smashing the glass and grabbing the hilt, from striking down her first enemy with it. She can see from here the engraving on the metal of the blade, catching the light, the two words engrained in her head just like the Creed, side by side, the words her father would repeat when things were hard, when her mother died and left them alone.

 _We endure_ , he said. _We must endure_.

 _Yes_ , she thinks, _I will endure._

"Lottie," Evie says from ahead. "Are you alright?"

She nods. "Yes. Let's go."

She leaves the Kukri on the mantle place, unable to bring herself to take it, not now, not yet, and realises that if she ever returns to this place, it will be gone by then.

The thought doesn't hurt as much as she thinks it should.

* * *

Lottie gifts her father's journals to Evie, the pain too raw, the wound too open, for her to read them herself. She sits in silence while Evie pours over this new knowledge, listening to the older Frye as she hums thoughtfully, as she exclaims in glee, as she scribbles notes down in her own journal. Lottie, all the while, remains curled up on Jacob's sofa, staring glumly at the cane that rests beside the Templar Wall, and wishing she had thought ahead and retired to her room, damn the strange looks, damn the whispers.

Visiting her home has opened up the wound she thought sewn shut and she regrets the decision to go with Evie, regrets feeling as though she had to go, as though she couldn't trust Evie to get the job done. She wishes she hadn't gone, wishes she hadn't seen the mess and devastation left in the wake of her father's murder, wishes she had remained naïve and oblivious to it.

She'd never imagined the Templars would do such a thing, not until she went there, and she curses her naivety, her childlike belief that her home would be the way she left it all that time ago.

Evie makes another delighted noise and Lottie turns her head, watching the dark haired woman as she scribbles some more, each journal open at different pages, her father's handwriting on display. Lottie's glad, she is, because she's always known her father to be a fount of knowledge, and at least someone is getting use from it.

"This is remarkable," Evie says suddenly, quietly, and Lottie can hear the disbelief in her tone. Lottie shifts on the sofa and the other woman looks over her shoulder, eyes alight with joy. "This is _truly_ remarkable."

Lottie's never known a woman like Evie, to be so elated at new discoveries – her father would have loved to meet her.

"He mentions a number of other Pieces of Eden," Evie remarks eagerly, "scattered across the world. Of course, we already know about the Apples," her cheeks tint pink, "Ezio provided enough information about them. And the French Brotherhood retrieved the Sword but Jonathan mentions Temples and Shards – this is truly fascinating."

Lottie swallows. "I'm glad it wasn't all for nought," she says softly, more strongly than she anticipated.

Evie nods, as though she hasn't heard her, and doesn't stop her reading, doesn't stop her scribbling. Lottie reaches for the throw, grabs for it where it's been tossed haphazardly over the back of the sofa, and wraps it around her shoulders.

She bids Evie good night, smiles amusedly at the other woman's _hm_ and her frantic scribbling, and shuffles from the train car, grabbing for a whiskey bottle as she passes the dining car.

A couple of the Rooks bid her good evening and Lottie doesn't hide that she's looking for Jacob amongst the faces, for Jack and Bonny, and she's sure she must look pitiful to them, tired and sad, but she's not in the mood to pretend tonight.

She leans against the headboard of her bed, opens the bottle, and starts to drink.

* * *

" _Some_ one's had a rough day," remarks a voice over her head as insistent hands pry at the throw still wrapped around her shoulders.

Lottie groans but shrugs out of the throw and hands it over, smartly hiding the glass bottle she'd taken with her amongst the covers of her bed. She shrugs half-heartedly at Jacob's remark and feels the bed dip as he sits on its edge.

"Hand it over," he says and he knows her too well. He downs the rest of the bottle, cringes at the burn that Lottie savours.

Lottie sighs. "I went home today."

"I heard. My sister appears over the moon at the knowledge she has gained from this venture of yours."

His joking tone is completely lost on her, as blank and lifeless as she feels. She feels his hand reaching for hers, his thumb rubbing circles on the skin soothingly, and she starts to come back to herself. She sits up and faces him, lets him lean forward to kiss her in greeting.

"I imagine you'll feel better shortly, in any case," he says dubiously, and at her confused stare, he adds, with a self-pitying sigh, "I spent the afternoon in Scotland Yard."

"Oh?" Lottie replies, interested. "Did Sergeant Abberline require help with something?"

He shakes his head. "You'll recall this morning, I told my sister I would assist Mr Dickens with one of his cases for the Ghost Club?"

Lottie nods. He had mentioned before leaving the train – and after much teasing from Lottie over his belief of _ghosts_ and paranormal activity to which he had replied that it was _Evie_ who believed in such _drivel_ , not _him_ – that Mr Dickens' latest case involved a string of robberies with most peculiar circumstances. He mentioned that there was a belief that a demon was forcing the townspeople to perform the robberies and not a one of the victims had any recollection of what happened after waking up in a jail cell –

Realisation dawns and a smile spreads across her face, beaming and entertained.

"It didn't," she says around a smile, already feeling better before he's even confirmed her suspicions.

"It did," he says. "I spent the afternoon in jail."

Lottie's boisterous laugh is all she can hear, all she can feel for a few precious moments. She's forgotten about her day just for this little bit of time, imagining instead how Abberline would have reacted to finding Jacob in a cell, how the Rooks would have reacted to their Boss being carted off.

"Yes, alright," he grumbles. He sidles into her bed, taking another swig of whiskey as he does so, and Lottie curls into his side, hiding her chuckles in his coat, feeling them all through her body. His arm comes around her shoulders, holding her against him.

"I wasn't going to tell you," he admits, after her chuckles have died down and she's settled against his side. He squeezes her arm gently and Lottie rests her head on his chest, breathing him in, feeling his breath as it disturbs her hair. "But I realised if I didn't my Rooks would. Better you hear from me. Less humiliating."

"Yes," she agrees. Her smile returns to her face as she leans back to look at him. "Your day has been much worse than mine."

"Well," he says, tilting his head this way and that, screwing up his nose. "I don't believe that."

She kisses him quickly, chastely, a small thank you whispered between the two as their breaths mingle and she settles against him again, her face buried in the curve of his neck.

"I have a small favour to ask," he says quietly, when Lottie's on the cusp of sleep. She hums, not quite awake, not quite asleep, but listening nonetheless, and Jacob continues, "I agreed to escort Mrs Disraeli to Devil's Acre. Tomorrow night. Join me?"

She hums again. "Devil's Acre," she echoes. They'd won the stronghold nearby from the Blighters near a week ago, but Lottie knows there are still men and woman loitering there, brave and stupid, and it's no place for the Prime Minister's wife. "Why did you agree to do that?"

"She knows the man I'm looking for," Jacob says.

"Ah. And she'll tell you if you do this."

"Exactly." He pauses. "It'll be fun."

"Dangerous, too."

"Aren't they one and the same?"

Lottie huffs a laugh, closing her eyes again. He's not wrong, she reflects, his idea of _fun_ usually does walk hand in hand with danger and as thrilling as she finds it, she's not sure the Prime Minister's wife will appreciate being almost killed in the worst part of London, surrounded by the worst of the worst.

"I'm sure you can manage alone," she says, because she's not wrong, and she's not entirely sure how she'll feel tomorrow, if Evie will have uncovered something else that will send her spiralling downwards again.

"Well, yes," agrees Jacob, without a hint of modesty, "but two heads are better than one, dear Lottie, and I'd rather not be known as the man who escorted the Prime Minister's wife into the worst slum in London and got her killed."


	22. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie assists Jacob as he escorts Mrs Disraeli through the Devil's Acre.

Beatrice Gribble is young and beautiful and nothing like what Lottie has come to associate with the Templars of London.

Her lips are a pale pink, full and smirking, and her heart shaped face is framed by silky curls of dark hair. Her cheekbones are wickedly sharp, her eyes lined with dark kohl, and Lottie's almost sorry to eliminate such a beauty from existence.

_That's dangerous_ , quips Jacob Frye in the back of her mind, in the same voice from those few weeks ago, low and taunting, and when she closes her eyes she can see it all over again, the bottle at his lips, the smirk and the mischievous gaze. _Falling in love with a dead woman_.

It's not love though, she thinks and her stomach somersaults as Jacob's hand grazes her arm, as he stands so unnecessarily close as she surveys her target. There's no way around it, no way to be stealthy, nowhere to hide –

Jacob's fingers dance over the small of her back and up her spine, tickling that spot at the back of her neck. She flinches and when she shoots him a glower, lacking heat but trying in vain to be serious, he looks playful, gleeful, like he's just figured out a secret.

"Ticklish, are we?" he says and despite the Blighter's stalking the park, despite Lottie's target being so close that she could look up and see the two of them there at any second, despite the fact her _somewhat_ carefully planned mission could fall to pieces should that happen, her stern expression disappears as she hugs herself, stepping back from the playful expression crossing his face.

"Jacob," she says, and while she's trying to be cross she doesn't think it's coming across very well, "this is serious."

"Yes," he agrees, far too readily for Lottie's liking. He reaches for her again and his hands are centimetres from her as she dances out of his reach. "This is _very_ serious."

Lottie doesn't have the time to be messing around with him, not now while her target is so close and she's been watching her for so long, but there's something about the gleefully manic look on his face that has her becoming distracted.

" _Jacob_ ," she tries, but it falls on deaf ears and his arms come around her because she's too slow to react. She's breathing heavily, staring up at him and out the corner of her eye Beatrice Gribble is watching them curiously. Any moment, their cover could be blown, any moment all of Lottie's hard work could be for naught.

She leans forwards and presses her lips hungrily to Jacob's, her arms around his neck and drawing him closer to her, the rim of his top hat shielding their faces and his arms tighten around her, drawing her closer to him and up onto her toes.

Lottie's never done this before; she's never been so public with affection like this. The closest she's ever come to a situation not even _remotely_ like this was when she was courting that gentleman a couple of years ago, but that had failed miserably before she could even consider such a thing happening.

She hears Gribble scoffing and when Lottie and Jacob pull apart, she's storming away, beginning her rounds again. She's in the middle of the pond, accessible only by the single pathway Lottie can see over Jacob's shoulder, and the only outcome Lottie can see to eliminating Gribble is the one she most wants to avoid.

But there's no way around it.

"We need the Rooks," she whispers against Jacob's mouth, frowning slightly as she watches the Blighters that surround Gribble.

"What?" replies Jacob, sounding truly perplexed, and when she glances at him he looks thoughtful. "I don't think I want to share –"

" _Jacob_ ," she cuts in, horrified, and wouldn't Kate find this a truly riveting piece of gossip, "I meant to get to Gribble!"

"'Course you did," he laughs, and his fingers are brushing over her flushing cheeks gently, fondly. "Right," he adds, back to business but keeping up their pretence of a self-absorbed couple and taking her arm in his own, guiding her away from the pond and her target.

There are four Rooks idling at the corner, watching the two of them as they approach, appearing love-struck and enamoured with one another – they might be a thing, a maybe-courting thing, but they're not in love, not yet, and while Lottie's taken with him, she thinks _enamoured_ is possibly too strong a word – but when Jacob's attention turns to them, they're all business.

"Follow behind us," Jacob orders, quietly, a murmur from the corner of his mouth as he lips hover near the curve of Lottie's ear. She smiles, ducks her head into his shoulder, feigning embarrassed humility. "Be _subtle_."

The returned murmurs are quiet and said to the wall behind them and Lottie's impressed by their near silent footfalls as they tail them in the direction of the pond.

"I've taught them a few things," Jacob whispers in her ear, and Lottie recalls their conversation from _months_ ago, said between the two of them after the asylum, before Lottie's world crashed around her and she was grounded. Jacob's wishes to train the Rooks up a bit, to _teach them a few things_.

Beatrice Gribble is no longer considering the danger she may have been in or the conspicuous couple loitering at the metal fence.

Lottie's hand reaches for her Kukri, the other for a throwing knife. She feels Jacob shifting at her side, grasping tightly to the hilt of his own Kukri, but when he reaches inside his coat, Lottie hesitates, frowning at the small metal orb in his hand.

"Another gift from Aleck," he says smugly as Lottie studies it; it looks like a smoke bomb, she thinks, but there's something about it that distinguishes the two. The metal's darker, it looks heavier, and there's something about the unassuming metal that gives Lottie pause.

"What is it?" she asks quietly, retaining appearances, leaning in to brush her lips along his jaw.

"Watch."

He lights it and Lottie watches in morbid fascination as he launches it into the park, as it rolls to a stop at Beatrice Gribble's feet. She's waiting for the smoke to erupt from within, waiting to dash into the cover of grey and end the woman's life, but Jacob's hand on her arm is a curiosity.

She pauses and watches.

Arcs of lightning burst forth from the metal, grasping for whoever is nearby and Beatrice Gribble and two of her guards arch and writhe and shriek, their muscles seizing and their clothes singed. Jacob throws himself forward at the distraction and with the Rooks following closely at Lottie's back, she joins.

Beatrice Gribble is too dazed and fried to defend herself, and Lottie's Kukri is met with no resistance. The woman stumbles once and raises her hands to her throat as she falls to her knees, trying in vain to stop the blood that flows from Lottie's true strike.

Lottie watches impassively, her eyes hidden in the shadow of her hood as she stands over her target. Beatrice Gribble's mouth opens and closes, as though there are words she wishes to say but can't voice them, and Lottie thinks again that it's a shame.

_So young_ , she thinks, _to have thrown her life away to this cause._  

"Well," says Jacob Frye, throwing an arm over her shoulders. "Thanks for the helps, lads."

Lottie forces her eyes away from Beatrice Gribble, from her body that's lying still and lifeless at her feet, and towards Jacob, towards the Rooks that are departing from the park now, as if nothing ever happened at all.

"I do think that will have gotten Lilla Graves attention," muses Jacob. An excitable grin crosses his face. "I sense another gang war on the horizon, dear Lottie!"

The idea doesn't thrill Lottie as much as it does him; memories of what nearly happened to Jacob at the last one remain too close to the surface, too open a wound. She swallows her words; what happened with Nora was a fluke, she tells herself, and this war will go differently. He's never had trouble claiming the boroughs before and he's not about to start.

"Now," says Jacob. His breath ghosts over her ear once more, warm and short, still exhilarated from the brawl. He holds out his arm for her to take. "Shall we?"

* * *

 

She's leaning against the wall, hood drawn over her eyes and watching carefully; there are too many shady characters lingering about this area of Westminster, too many that could cause problems. She recalls Jacob's words from the night before; _I'd rather not be known as the man who escorted the Prime Minister's wife into the worst slum in London and got her killed_.

The longer Lottie stands here, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, the longer she waits for Jacob and Mrs Disraeli, the more likely what Jacob fears will happen will be their outcome.

The Devil's Acre is just coming to life when Jacob appears, at the reins of a carriage and his driving more contained than usual.

Lottie pushes away from the wall she's leaning against, a smirk on her lips and a jesting taunt on her tongue when Jacob opens the door and the Prime Minister's wife steps out. She's dressed far too nicely for the Devil's Acre, in the way only a woman of her station can be. She's oblivious, Lottie assumes, to the real danger she's in coming here, wearing one of her fine gowns and toting an expensive bag with –

Lottie's eyes are alight with joy, seeing the small dog poking its head out from the opening and surveying its surroundings curiously. With one hand over her mouth and the other clutching at her stomach, she must look a sight, and it takes everything in her not to squeal as Jacob and Mrs Disraeli approach.

She feels underdressed next to the Prime Minister's wife, wearing her coat and trousers and loaded with weapons, and she nearly shrivels under the older woman's scrutinising stare, nearly gets to her knees and begs forgiveness for her state of dress.

Instead, she pulls herself together and greets, "Mrs Disraeli."

"I find myself at _quite_ a disadvantage, young lady," returns the Prime Minister's wife and she shoots Jacob a disparaging look. She looks between Lottie and Jacob at the same time Jacob shrugs at Lottie's helpless expression.

"Charlotte Crawley," she introduces, inclining her head. "I see Jacob- er, Mr Frye failed to mention I would be accompanying you this evening."

Mrs Disraeli's eyes light up at Lottie's slip of the tongue and Lottie starts to see the woman Jacob described to her; curious and mischievous, seizing the opportunity on the information she's just been granted.

"Ah," she says, casting her glance between Lottie and Jacob once more. "I say, are the two of you... _courting_?"

"Er," Lottie says at the same time Jacob says, "Ah, Madam –"

"Please," says Mary-Anne Disraeli. "I have been married _twice_ , as I'm sure the two of you know. I remember _very well_ what it's like. Why, when I was your age –"

"Madam, shall we?" Jacob cuts in, holding out his arm, saving Lottie from the mortification she can feel engulfing her. She stares at their backs as they pass her by, unsure of how to react or proceed, and only when Jacob shoots her a look over his shoulder does she realise she's yet to move.

This is going to be more difficult than she thought, she realises, if the Prime Minister's wife is as open with her words and thoughts as this. No wonder Jacob asked for her aid; if Mrs Disraeli was so comfortable enquiring after the state of their... whatever it is they have, who knows what else she'll be comfortable doing in the Devil's Acre.

She catches up with Jacob and Mrs Disraeli in time to catch the tail end of a conversation, the hushed and embarrassed whispers of Jacob and the Prime Minister's wife, feigning obliviousness:

"- Dizzy and I are exactly the same," says Mrs Disraeli. "Behind closed doors, of course – we _do_ have a reputation, after all. And you and Miss Crawley are – well, I imagine you've no need to burden yourselves with such worry."

"Ah, Madam," and Jacob's voice sounds choked, though Lottie doesn't particularly understand why. "Er, if we could please –"

"Oh!" she says suddenly, as Lottie stops at Jacob's other side. He doesn't offer his other arm to her and Lottie's tempted to be offended, until she sees that his hand is resting on the hilt of the Kukri at his thigh, and his eyes are narrowed and alert, surveying the prowling Blighters around them with wariness that Lottie's not used to seeing on his face.

It's not uncalled for; ordinarily this wouldn't be a worry, Lottie knows, because they could draw their weapons and dispose of them easily. But with Mrs Disraeli in the dirty slum with them, their usual methods have become unavailable.

It wouldn't be proper, Lottie thinks, to slay a man before the Prime Minister's wife. She doesn't think she'd be easily forgiven for staining the older woman's dress.

But that doesn't mean she can't slay them when the woman isn't looking.

"Do you know this gentleman is a... oh, what was it? _Oh, yes_ – a costermonger, of all things. Remarkable how the working classes occupy themselves, isn't it?"

Mrs Disraeli sounds truly amazed by the very idea that work could be something to merely pass the time and Lottie has to bite her lip to keep from saying something she shouldn't. The Prime Minister's wife has stopped to survey the man's wares, the bruised and dirty fruit and vegetables on the rickety old cart and Lottie has no doubts she probably receives far nicer produce in her home.

"Very industrious, I'm sure," says Jacob, and Lottie finds it astonishing that he hasn't lost his patience with her yet. "Shall we go?"

They get all of ten paces before the woman is stopping again, and Jacob's shooting Lottie a pleading and self-pitying look that she can do little to help with. She shrugs but reaches out to take his free hand, squeezing it gently.

"- I thought that _was_ the Eucharist!"

Mrs Disraeli pauses again, turning to the man directly as he barks laughter in the woman's face, not a care directed towards the three.

"I'm terribly sorry," she says, but she doesn't sound it in the slightest, "I have no _earthly_ idea what you're talking about."

The man is still laughing at his joke, paying her no heed, and Lottie casts her eyes to the heavens, praying for the patience to not grab Mrs Disraeli and force her through this damned place.

Jacob clears his throat and gently guides Mrs Disraeli away. "Mrs Disraeli?"

Her answer is to start whistling tunelessly and Lottie's starting to wonder if the woman is doing it on purpose, trying to get them caught for some sort of excitement. What did she expect when she asked Jacob to escort here? Did she expect brawls and fistfights? Is she discontented with their careful approach to this task?

Lottie's hand clenches into a fist – she spies the Blighter by the wall, watching them with narrowed eyes. If Mrs Disraeli wants a fight, then by all means, she could give it to her.

"Everything all right?" asks Jacob, as the Prime Minister's wife continues to whistle, a contented smile on her face.

"Oh, _yes_ ," she says gleefully. "I've just learned to _whistle_!"

Jacob doesn't sound impressed in the slightest. "Right." He glances away from the Prime Minister's wife briefly, ducks his head to say in Lottie's ear, "Take care of that, love, won't you?"

He nods towards the Blighter Lottie had been watching before, an almost imperceptible action that Lottie's sure she might have missed – sure that Mrs Disraeli _did_ miss – had she not been paying him any attention.

The Blighter in question is starting to amble towards them, a wicked grin on his face as he looks over the three of them, and Lottie strides forward, reaching instantly for the throwing knives at her belt. She can still hear Mrs Disraeli and Jacob behind her, the older woman still entirely oblivious to the goings-on around her, and there's a warning in Lottie's eyes and a threat on her lips when she finally draws her weapon before the Blighter.

"Move on," she orders coldly, with an elegant twist of her hand to draw attention to the small blade between her fingers, "or you'll be dead before you can say another word."

The Blighter huffs a laugh Lottie can only describe as amused and tosses his head to clear the hair that's fallen into his eyes. He turns on his heel in the opposite direction from Jacob and Mrs Disraeli and begins to slowly walk away. Lottie watches him go, watches the pause in his step as he looks over his shoulder, catching her watching him and still smirking, like he has something to be smug about.

It sets Lottie's nerves on edge.

She hesitates there, watching that man until he's out of sight, before she follows her companions once more. The Blighter lingers in the back of her mind; there's something about him, she realises, coming to stand beside Jacob again. She _knows_ his face.

"Alright, love?" Jacob mutters, out of the corner of his mouth, but in that gentle and concerned tone Lottie's still getting used to hearing from him.

She nods jerkily but the Blighter's face lingers in the back of her mind, haunting her like a ghost.

" _Oh_ Mr Frye! Look at those two!"

Against the wall are a couple, too caught up in one another to notice the three of them passing by, too caught up to notice anything at all, Lottie reckons. It's nothing Lottie's not used to seeing, nothing she's not used to being on the receiving end of, but in their present company, her face flushes red and she hastens to clear her throat and look anywhere but at the couple and Mrs Disraeli.

" _Err_ , yes," stammers Jacob, and Lottie feels better after seeing his own face, embarrassed, unsure, trying to find the words to describe the impropriety the Prime Minister's wife is witnessing. "They seem to be – _um_..."

"I've been married _twice_ , Mr Frye," says Mrs Disraeli proudly, and Lottie _knows_ that, the woman mentioned it not ten minutes ago, but she still can't stop herself from feeling embarrassed. "I'm fully aware of what they're doing. God _bless_ them."

It feels like forever and an age before they reach the pub Jacob's escorting Mrs Disraeli to – and Lottie's entirely too grateful for the creaky seat and the reprieve from the Prime Minister's wife and her naïve questions. It's astounding, she realises, that a woman so high in society can be so unaware of all that's happening around her and Lottie's reminded of herself.

The thought is entirely unwanted.

The night of her father's murder she'd had her eyes opened; all the cases she's worked with Jacob, with Evie, _alone_ , every one has opened her eyes to the state of London, to the people suffering in its streets. She'd been content to ignore them before, content to sit in her dresses and drink her tea and pay them no mind.

Somehow, no matter how hard Lottie tries, she can't imagine Mrs Disraeli sitting in her parlour and sipping her tea, naively believing that things will get better.

Why else would she be here?

"So this is a 'pint', is it?" inquires Mrs Disraeli, when Jacob returns from the bar and sets the metal mug before her. Lottie resolutely ignores her own, as much as she'd like to down it there and then and numb herself to the frustration this woman is making her feel. She watches the older woman take a courageous sip, watches her face contort into an expression of perplexed disgust and murmur, less enthusiastically than before, "Remarkable."

The pub is mostly empty, save for a couple of drunkards loitering at the bar and a lone Blighter in the corner, with a greying and unkempt beard and dark hair hidden beneath a bowler hat. His hat doesn't seem as nice as Jacob's, doesn't seem as well kept, and Lottie's eyes sweep over the rest of his body simply out of habit, searching for threats while Jacob seems content to drink.

Lottie's gets it; she's tired and irritable too. Mrs Disraeli is hardly the easiest person to be escorting, as curious about all in the Devil's Acre as she appears to be, and Lottie regrets accepting Jacob's offer at all. If she'd known before that it would be this difficult, that the Prime Minister's _wife_ would be this difficult, she'd have run in the opposite direction as soon as Jacob mentioned it.

She watches warily as the Blighter from the corner gets to his feet, ambling towards them with a sort of relaxed arrogance that Lottie's not used to seeing in them. She wonders if it's this area of London, if it's only the Blighters of Westminster who feel as such, who feel untouchable.

_The Rooks will see to that soon enough_ , she thinks cockily. She's seen first-hand their abilities, seen the start of Jacob's training and influence upon them.

"Nice doggie," comments the Blighter, and Lottie watches Jacob straighten somewhat, paying attention as her fingers start to edge closer to her throwing knives. She's ready for any attack on Mrs Disraeli, ready to react –

" _DESMOND_!" shrieks Mary-Anne Disraeli as the Blighter flees the pub, her handbag in one hand and her small dog barking angrily all the while. Lottie's too shocked to react, unable to comprehend what's just happened and sure that _that_ 's not what she expected in the slightest.

Jacob glances to her, communicating with a single, apprehensive look that has Lottie nodding in return without even thinking.

"Go," she says immediately, hurriedly. "I'll protect her."

And later Lottie thinks they'll laugh about it, about the speed with which Jacob took off after the _dognapper_ , about the very idea that he, a trained assassin, had been reduced to rescuing an elderly woman's _dog_ at all, but right now all she can feel is worry for the little dog, and concern about being left alone in one of the most dangerous pubs in London with the Prime Minister's wife.

Lottie returns her attention to the woman at her side, settling uneasily in her seat once more and casting glances over her shoulder every now and then. Lottie wants to reach out for the woman, reminded suddenly of Millie, of what she would do when her friend was concerned and upset. But she can't take Mrs Disraeli's hand, not here, not when there's such a divide between their classes.

Perhaps if Lottie was still a woman of society, if her father was still alive, things might be different.

"Err," she starts, unsurely, " _Desmond_ will be fine, madam. Jacob's one of the best at what he does."

She doesn't think it would be prudent to mention that Desmond's dognapper might not see the end of the night, if Jacob's true skillset comes to light.

At the very least, Lottie's words seem to provide a distraction for the woman, as her eyes are alight with curiosity once more, and twinkling with mischief.

"He is rather," she pauses, searching for a word Lottie already knows she has, " _dashing_ , isn't he?"

Lottie inclines her head and tries to keep herself composed. "I... suppose he is, madam."

"Well, you must think so," continues the other woman, "otherwise the two of you wouldn't be so... _taken_ with one another."

"We, ah, err, that is-"

Lottie's reminded of the couple from before, of how _taken_ with one another they were, so caught up in each other that they hardly paid any heed to those around them, watching them. She knows she and Jacob have been like that, have probably been on the receiving end of plenty of derisive scoffs and unimpressed glowers, and she's never really thought about that until now.

What if she and Jacob had been that couple in the alley? What if Mrs Disraeli was the one to witness it?

_I've been married twice_ , she'd said to them, so unashamedly. _I know what they're doing_.

The words give Lottie's rampant thoughts pause and when she glances up at Mrs Disraeli, she sees the other woman smiling playfully once more. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, Lottie thinks, and her embarrassment seems unfounded now.

"I do hope you realise how lucky you are," says Mrs Disraeli quite suddenly, "to be able to choose who to love."

"We're not in love," says Lottie instantly.

The older woman inclines her head and seems to ponder her words. "Dizzy didn't marry _me_ for love, you know." When she's sure she has Lottie's attention, she continues, "He married me for my money, which, _of course_ , I did not have."

Over Mrs Disraeli's shoulder, Lottie sees more Blighters, edging towards them, prowling forward. There's no doubt in Lottie's mind who the prey is in this situation.

"We had an arrangement," continues the Prime Minister's wife obliviously, "and while I may never have believed it then, I do think that Dizzy would have married me for love, if we were given another try."

Lottie's eyes stray to the Blighters once more; they're closer now, and her hand drifts subconsciously to her throwing knives.

"Now I can hardly imagine going home to anyone but my Dizzy," says Mary-Anne, and Lottie's astounded to see the adoration on her face as she talks about a man who's not even there to hear it. "Home," she continues, and Lottie's attention is drawn from the Blighters suddenly, momentarily, as the Prime Minister's wife places her hand on her arm. "Home becomes a person, you see. _That_ 's when you know you are in love."

And the words are on Lottie's lips – _we're not in love, madam_ , because they're not, not yet, and she hasn't really thought that far ahead yet anyway – but the Blighters have gotten too close for comfort. Her hand brushes Mrs Disraeli's briefly, a fleeting thank you that Lottie can't say aloud, and she gets to her feet to address the problem.

There are four of them, sauntering forwards as though Lottie poses no threat at all, and she thinks they just might be right. They all stand at least two heads taller than her, larger and stronger, and Lottie's good but not _that good_.

Not yet, at least.

"Now gentlemen," says Lottie, feigning confidence while her heart is thundering wildly in her ears and beating against her chest. Her hand hovers over the hilt of her Kukri, drawing the weapon clearly into their sight. She might be outnumbered here, she thinks, but that doesn't mean she'll go down without some of her dignity. "Have you really thought this through?"

She's by no means confident that she can take them alone, and she doesn't think Jacob will return with Desmond before she can get the upper hand – _if_ she can get the upper hand – but she'll be damned if she lets these Blighters take the Prime Minister's wife without a fight.

"Miss Crawley, please," says Mrs Disraeli and Lottie's shocked again into stillness at the older woman's hand on her arm, gently but firmly tugging her back to her seat that she hardly realises what's happened until she's sat down and the Prime Minister's wife is on her feet and addressing the Blighters. "I'm sure there's a perfectly equitable reason for these fine gentlemen to be approaching our table."

" _Err,_ madam –" Lottie tries, a touch flighty, getting slowly to her feet and dreading the conversation she'll have with Jacob if she's responsible for the Prime Minister's wife being kidnapped – or _worse_.

"Now," says Mrs Disraeli diplomatically. "Do have a seat, young man." The Blighter she's referring to by no means looks _young;_ he's large and bald, towering easily over Mrs Disraeli and Lottie _knows_ he won't be an easy opponent. He doesn't move for a long time and neither does Lottie, watching the exchange warily, waiting for a weapon to be drawn, for blood to be shed.

And then Mrs Disraeli says, "Young man," in a tone of voice that brokers no argument and has Lottie settling in her seat for fear of the what the woman might do if she turns and sees Lottie half risen as she is.

And the Blighter takes the seat Jacob has not long vacated, looking cowed and intimidated by this small, utterly defenceless woman and sitting as demurely as a man his size can in a chair two sizes too small for him.

And what happens afterwards is so fascinating that Lottie can hardly recall how it happened. One second she's watching the Blighters crowding the table warily, waiting for one to make a move and draw a weapon and the next she's hearing the life's story of each Blighter in turn: Robert, tall and blond, an orphan at fifteen after losing his parents tragically to illness; Henry, large and red-haired, who grew up in an abusive household and left to earn a living in the fight clubs; Jeremy, whose uncle worked for the Blighters before him and who taught him how to fight and eventually recommended him to Maxwell Roth.

John the Tosser is Mrs Disraeli's latest sob story and Lottie's too busy discussing Jeremy's impending transition to the Rooks that she hardly notices Jacob striding towards the table, Desmond in one hand and the other hovering close to the Kukri at his side.

She hears their conversation, but hardly pays them any mind, getting to her feet and saying to Jeremy, "Whitechapel station at noon tomorrow. I'll meet you there?"

Jeremy nods eagerly and shakes her hand firmly, with a hand covered in scars and bruises. She's heard all she needs to know about him; further training by Maxwell Roth, _the Maxwell Roth_ , wait until Jacob hears about that one, and wishes to abscond from the Blighters and find a friend of his who joined the Rooks in Lambeth.

"Lottie," calls Jacob, and she doesn't miss the suspicious narrowing of his eyes and he takes in the two of them. "Time to _go_."

"Until tomorrow then, Jeremy," she says kindly, and confusingly Jeremy's face flushes bright red.

"Er, yes, Miss Crawley," he says softly, bashfully, "lookin' forward to it."

"What was that about?" asks Jacob instantly, as soon as they're out of earshot and almost at the carriage.

"A recruit for the Rooks," Lottie answers honestly. "He expressed to me his wish to leave the Blighters – I may have helped set him on the right path."

"Oh?"

"I'm meeting him tomorrow noon, if you'd like to join me?"

"I have to," says Jacob and Lottie can't identify the emotion clouding his voice, "he's joining _my gang_."

She pauses, considering. "You're not angry, are you?"

"'Course not," he says, in the same biting tone. "We need all the help we can get."

Jacob takes Mrs Disraeli's hand and helps her into the carriage, closing the door firmly behind her and finally looking at Lottie.

"What I don't need," he says softly, "is someone eyeing you up like a piece of meat."

Lottie blinks, once, twice, and then she starts to laugh. She hadn't even seen the way Jeremy was looking at her, hadn't even considered that he might; all she saw was the keen, young face of a flighty Blighter looking for escape, no lecherous gazes that Jacob seems to have.

"Jacob Frye," she says gleefully, "you are jealous!"

Jacob opens his mouth to retort and Lottie can clearly see the frustration overwhelming his expression now, but over his shoulder she spies three Blighters; she recognises the one from before, with the scraggly beard and the tendency to kidnap little dogs.

"Well, well, well," he crows, and Lottie can see the irritation and exhaustion on Jacob's face, no longer directed at her but at the cause of their interruption. "If it isn't the dog walker."

Lottie's eyes dart to the carriage, to Mrs Disraeli waiting patiently inside. She leans up, pecking his lips quickly, and she knows Jacob has realised her plan before she fully has. His hand grabs her arm before she can pass him and Lottie's too aware of the Blighters prowling forward, of the carriage with the Prime Minister's wife, and there's no time to waste.

"I can't let you," Jacob says sternly, "not alone."

There's three of them and one of her and they're all small and thin; she thinks she can take them with the right distractions. There are smoke bombs in her jacket – if she can catch them unawares, she can _do_ this.

She quips, wearing a cocky smirk with little of the confidence, "I'm not giving you a choice."

And she's as stubborn as he is and he knows it and she won't take no for an answer and neither will he.

"Jacob, go." She pauses, her eyes dart between Jacob and the carriage. "Have fun."

His answering smile is wistful, though Lottie isn't sure why. "Don't die."

And before she can draw any kind of weapon, he's drawn a voltaic bomb from his coat and launched it towards the approaching Blighters, removing any possibility of a dramatic entrance to the fight that Lottie was hoping for. She shoots him an annoyed glare and he replies with an unconcerned shrug that she's beginning to associate with him.

"You know me better than that by now, dear Lottie," he says, his lips quirked in the arrogant smirk Lottie also associates with him. "I will _never_ pass up a good fight." 

* * *

 

The Rooks greet their returning Boss with a raucous cheer and claps on the back that amuse Lottie to no end. They act like he's a returning king, a conquering hero, and from what she's learned of Jacob, she's not sure how he would appreciate that image.

He spies her at the bar, her elbow on the sticky surface as she surveys the room coolly, acting calmly indifferent to his appearance despite the fluttering in her stomach she always feels at his arrival. For the first time in months, the whiskey bottle on the bar has hardly been touched.

"So," she says in greeting, as Jacob sidles onto the barstool beside her and reaches for the bottle. "Did you learn the identity of the mysterious _B_?"

Jacob hums, setting the glass bottle on the sticky surface again. "The Earl of Cardigan," he muses. "Apparently I can find him in the Palace of Westminster." He pauses and takes another drink. "He'll be protesting the Corrupt Practices Bill there in a few days' time. That's when I'll strike. With the Earl eliminated, Starrick won't see us coming."

Lottie's not sure how she feels about that; she doesn't want to eliminate the Grand Master, she never has. She wants _Lynch_ , that's all she's ever wanted, but the more she lingers with Jacob, aiding him where she could be furthering her own goals, the further Lynch slips from her grasp.

Her thoughts must read on her face, she thinks, because Jacob's reaching for her, brushing her hair oh so gently from her eyes as he often does, and encouraging her to meet his eyes.

"We will kill Lynch," he tells her softly, "we will."

They're words she's heard from his mouth often, too much, and while they're beginning to sound hollow and surreal, Lottie nods her acceptance, despite the bitterness broiling in her stomach and the anger coursing through her veins.

_Yes_ , she thinks, turning her face away from him and reaching for the bottle. _We will. But_ _when_?

She could have killed him by now, she thinks again, _she could have killed him_.

"Westminster is nearly ours," he breathes close to her ear, "after the Rooks control the streets, it's only a matter of time."

Lottie nods again. She's unsatisfied but unwilling to get into an argument with him here, not after their tiresome night in the Devil's Acre. Lottie just wants to retire, wants to reach for the whiskey bottle she's taken to hiding under her bed and forgetting her night completely.

"Well," she says aloud, "I think I shall retire. Good night, Mr Frye."

Jacob's smirk is contagious.

"Allow me to escort you, Miss Crawley," he returns, holding out his arm for her to take.

She takes it gladly.

Lottie's not sure when everything changed but the Rooks bid her a good evening as she passes them, inclining their heads to her and giving her an amount of respect she thinks is only reserved for Jacob and Evie. Perhaps it was her aid after Jacob's distraught actions following Pearl Attaway's death. Perhaps word has spread of her friendship with Jack and Bonny.

It's dizzying and astounding and she's not quite sure how to be comfortable with this new turn. She's so used to their wariness when she enters the dining car, memories of her encounter with that one Rook that night (he smiles gently when she passes, wishing her a "good night" so quietly, she's not sure if he _has_ at first) coming to the forefront of her mind and reminding her that there is _something_ for them to be wary of.

_When did that change_?

Jacob casts his eyes around her room when they enter and she's not sure why; it's nothing he hasn't seen before, after all.

And then he goes to her bed and reaches beneath it, pulling out the lone bottle of whiskey hidden there. His eyes are accusing and playful when he looks at her, setting it gently on the nightstand beside her bed and reminding her far too much of how disappointed her father would be to see her like this; relying on alcohol to get her through rough nights.

She shrugs and looks away, leaning heavily on the closed door of the train car. She hears his heavy footsteps as he approaches and Lottie forces herself to look up, forces herself to appear confident and strong and _in control_. She might feel as though everything is spiralling out of her hands but she won't show him that – she has to be _strong_.

The door is cold behind her back but she feels a flush coming over her as Jacob comes closer. He sets an arm on the wall above her head and his free hand ghosts over her jaw, caressing gently, savouring their small moment of peace.

He leans in further, his breath mingling with her own, his lips close enough to touch. She leans towards him, presses her lips gently to his, draws his bottom lip in her teeth as she pulls away. She's reminded suddenly of the couple she'd seen in the alleyway before, of their intimate position that she and Jacob are mimicking now.

He breathes her in hungrily and Lottie's arms are around his neck and drawing him closer, as though he will disappear in the next moment and leave her alone, stranded without him.

_I won't lose someone else_ , she thinks, and her desperation must transfer in her kiss because Jacob returns it fervently, pulling away only to breathe. _No one else_.

_Home becomes a person_ , Mrs Disraeli had told her earlier in the evening, _that's when you know you are in love_.

Lottie's not in love, not yet, but she knows how she feels and how Jacob makes her feel.

She's light and free and unburdened and if home is a person, she thinks she wouldn't mind if Jacob were that person.


	23. The Metaphorical White Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie is given some surprising news.

There are Rooks everywhere when Lottie steps through the door, spying Millie at the end of the hall and hearing her voice, barking orders as though she's commanding an army.

The hall itself is clear of the broken glass and busted furniture that littered it when Lottie was last here; there are tasteful paintings hanging on the walls and the floor has been polished into a cleanliness Lottie has never associated with this place before.

She spies Lottie in the doorway, stepping aside for a couple of Rooks side-stepping past her, carrying a new bookcase into the lounge – there's a new carpet, new drapery, new _everything_ and Lottie makes a mental note to thank Jacob for all that he's done.

Millie gestures to Lottie to go to the kitchen, mouths, "I'll be there shortly," and Lottie can't identify the emotion clouding her face. She's stern, like Lottie's used to, and she wants to attribute it to the unfamiliar men and woman crowding her home, repairing and replacing, but there's something about Millie's countenance that gives Lottie pause.

The kitchen table is freshly polished and the chairs completely new. The windows have been replaced, free of the dirt and the cracks Lottie's so used to, and she can almost see her reflection in them.

Millie scuttles in shortly after, looking flustered and reaching instantly for a washcloth to distract her hands with. Lottie settles in at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood as she watches her friend tugging and tearing at the worn cloth. She makes a mental note to replace them for her, a small gift to ease her friend's mind of whatever is troubling her.

"How are you?" Lottie starts slowly, gently, and finally Millie looks at her.

Her expression gives Lottie pause; she expects her friend to be _happy_ , tired and frustrated, perhaps, but happy. Instead, her expression has Lottie swallowing nervously and remembering times when she was younger and her father would scold her when he caught her doing something she ought not be doing.

Millie looks _furious_.

"How _am I_?" she asks and Lottie clutches the arms of the chair she sits in to contain their shaking. She's never been very good at handling Millie's anger, especially when it's directed at her. She feels like a child under the other woman's scrutinising stare.

Carefully, Lottie starts, "Have I done something to –"

"Not you," Millie cuts in and then, after a pause and a breath of silence, "but you're not entirely innocent in this either."

"Er-"

"How long have my children been in the employ of Mr Frye?"

Lottie's heart drops to her stomach.

"Millie –" she tries but the older woman will not be calmed.

"Long enough, it seems," she says furiously. "Of all the ridiculous schemes you've ever been involved in, Charlotte Crawley, this might just be the worst."

Lottie can't quite recall if she's ever actually _been_ in any ridiculous schemes, and the question is on the tip of her tongue – _what was the last scheme, Millie_? – but before she can open her mouth, her friend is continuing her raging tirade and she decides it's probably best if she stays quiet.

"Well, enough is enough, I say," she says, tossing aside the washcloth in her hand. Lottie watches as it disappears into the sink, remembers that it was always a pet peeve of her mother's, and she opens her mouth to mention that it _annoys_ her a little too, but Millie snaps, " _I know_ ," and Lottie wisely shuts her mouth. "You can tell Mr Frye that if he wants things stolen or- or- _lifted_ , then he can damn well do it himself!"

"Millie," says Lottie, hands raised and they're not shaking quite so much anymore, which is a surprise and a relief. " _Millie_ , look at me. The children are perfectly _safe_. Jacob watches over them."

Another beat of silence. Lottie can feel the tension in the air, the building rage that's coming off Millie in waves that's suffocating and terrifying.

" _Safe_ ," Millie repeats and then, with a scornful and tired laugh, " _Safe_!"

Lottie doesn't understand where this reaction is coming from – she's seen first-hand how Jacob does things, how he treats the children. Anything particularly risky, any job too dangerous, and he watches over him silently – he's told her this, when her worries had gotten too much and she'd had too much to drink. It had satisfied her and had made her a little more amiable to Jacob's cold and seemingly detached outlook to using them at all.

He's watching out for them, always.

_Clara would have my neck,_ he'd told her with a shrug. _Of course they're safe_.

She'd been content with that answer, because she knows how scary little Clara can be – she's heard the stories, after all, seen the young woman defend the children in Babylon Alley.

"Safe," says Millie again. She reaches into the sink for her abandoned washcloth, dripping water into the metal basin. She wrings it out and scoffs, "You're a damned fool if you believe that, Charlotte Crawley. A damned _fool_."

Another beat of silence and Lottie can't find the words to fill it.

"Ethan came home last night with a black eye," Millie reveals quietly and then she keeps going, getting angrier and angrier until she's shouting her rage. "The afternoon before that, little Sarah had a sprained wrist and bruises on her ribs. Adam has a scar along his collarbone – you ought to see it, Lottie, long and _deep_ and when you see it, Charlotte Crawley, then you can tell me they're _safe_."

Lottie doesn't have a reply to that. She doesn't think she _wants_ to see the scar on Adam's collarbone. Millie waits and waits and when no words are forthcoming, she sighs, wringing the washcloth over the sink, watches the water as it disappears down the drain.

Lottie swallows nervously and the words that leave her mouth leave a bitter taste on the tongue.

"I'm sure Jacob never intended for –"

" _Jacob_ ," Millie cuts in furiously. " _Jacob Frye_. If I never hear that name said again in my home, it will be far too _bloody_ soon!"

And how long ago had Lottie felt that way? It was a familiar feeling, rage and fury and anger and Lottie _knows_ how Millie feels but she also knows that she appreciates the few extra bob her children have been stealing from Blighters and it's better in her pocket than theirs.

It's selfish and cold and so _Jacob_ for her to think it and if she hadn't been led so astray, if she didn't _feel_ so astray, she would be ashamed of herself.

"Millie," Lottie starts, "I don't think Jacob intended for this to happen. He was sincere about protecting –"

"Please," snarls Millie, "spare me his excuses."

"He would never willingly endanger them," Lottie insists and Millie whirls on her.

" _He already has_!" she thunders. "Those Blighters came here because of _him_! They took the children _because of him_! They took the children because of him and because of –"

Lottie's breath catches in her throat. She recalls the message Millie was to pass on to her with stunning clarity, clear as day because she can never forget them, never forget the terror that gripped her heart nor the red that filled her vision.

"Because of me," Lottie finishes for her friend, because it's not a lie. Victor Lynch sent Lottie his regards, after all, no one else.

"Lottie," says Millie, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft for their conversation, for the words she's been spitting at Lottie since she arrived.

Lottie takes a deep breath, considering carefully her next move.

"I'll watch over the children," she says softly, though the words sting at her; all these obstacles in her way, all these obligations when she never asked for them in the first place. She wants _Lynch_ , he's all she's ever wanted, yet without even half trying, he seems to be getting farther and farther away from her.

"That's not good enough," Millie says, and Lottie watches the older woman fling the damp washcloth into the sink again, watches the steady drips from the tap as they disappear into the metal basin. "Of all the..."

Lottie persists. "Whatever Jacob has them doing, I'll tail them, I'll _protect_ them."

"They're not part of his damned _gang_!" screams Millie and Lottie can hear the desperation, can see the fear in her friend's face. The last time Lottie had seen such a thing, Millie's home had been upturned and her children taken. "He can't order them to- to- to _kill_ for him!"

Lottie takes exception to that. "He wouldn't! They're just _children_ , Millie-"

" _Yes_! They _are_!"

"Why can't you be satisfied?" Lottie tries and her voice is rising to a shout, as desperate as her friend. "I can't just –"

" _You can_ ," interrupts Millie, "Jacob Frye has no use for the children – it's just his own damned _laziness_!"

"You know as well as I that _that_ is not true," Lottie snaps back and she's almost ready to get to her feet, amazed that she's managed to keep her temper in check for so long as it is. "If there is one thing Jacob is _not_ it's –"

"Can't you _hear_ yourself?" Millie interrupts again and Lottie can hear the disbelief that coats her voice, can hear the disappointment she'd hoped to never hear from her friend. "They are _children_ , Lottie!"

"I'm not defending him," Lottie tries, after a pause for breath and to gather her erratic thoughts. Millie is leaving her no time to _think_. "I'm _not_. Just- Millie, try to see this from _our_ perspective-"

"All I see is a heartless assassin," spits Millie, "and she who I once called my friend."

Lottie feels the pain as physically as if Millie were stabbing her in the heart over and over again with a dull blade. She barely has time to think, time to process what's been said before Millie's demanding she leave, demanding that she get out of her sight and never return.

" _Millie_ ," Lottie says, desperate and confused, "I'll _look_ after them, I will, you have to _trust me_ –"

"I did," snaps Millie, "and you repaid my trust by selling out my children. You're no better than those blasted Blighters!"

Another stab and Lottie's anger starts to flare.

"Don't you _dare_ compare me to them," she says coldly, "don't you _dare_. I have not sold your children to Jacob, Millie – _no_ , you _listen to me_! I was not made aware of these _deal_ between them until Ethan –"

"That long?" cuts in Millie and Lottie's struck by her broken voice, by her broken posture as she leans heavily on the counter, turning her back to Lottie once more. "Months, Lottie." Her voice breaks. "I once held such respect for you, Charlotte Crawley."

Another stab and Lottie feels that bleeding out on the floor would hurt a lot less than this.

"Millie, _please_ –"

"What would your father think, your _mother_?" Millie demands suddenly, and the chair screeches along the floor as Lottie storms to her feet, scowling furiously, chest heaving, because even if Millie's her friend, even if she hates this conversation with every fibre of her being, there are things that she just can't tolerate being brought up by anyone but herself. "She would be –"

"They're _dead_ ," Lottie says, and the steady fury with which she says it amazes even her. "You have no right to use them against me. You have no right to use my _mother_ against me, Millie."

" _No right_ ," echoes Millie softly, sadly, and with none of the anger that's laced their conversation so far. " _No right_ , she says. No, of course I don't. I only grew up with the woman, of course. I only helped her through childbirth, only helped her raise you, only stayed by her bedside as she fell ill. _No right_ , of course."

Lottie's rage subsides momentarily as she casts her eyes to the floor, shamed. She huffs a breath, reaches for the older woman with shaking hands.

"Millie, I didn't –"

"Get out," says Millie suddenly, coldly, and Lottie's expression slackens. She stands there, still reaching for Millie and unable to comprehend what's being said. "Now."

"Millie –"

Her voice is a plea, said gently in disbelief. Millie has turned her back on her and leans heavily on the counter, one hand still clutching a washcloth and the other lying flat on the top.

"Thank Mr Frye for his assistance," she says calmly, lifting her head and looking out the window, "but do not return here until you have talked some _sense_ into the damnable man."

"Millie –"

" _Get out_!"

She accompanies the words with a harsh toss of the washcloth in her hands, sodden and dark from being soaked in the sink and Lottie's so shocked that she treats it as if it were a weapon, a real danger to her person. She stumbles from the table, towards the door, looking from the cloth thrown in rage to her oldest friend, her confidant, the only woman in London who might really understand how she feels.

There's a lump in Lottie's throat that she can't dislodge and tears pricking at her eyes. With the last of her dignity, she gathers herself and walks slowly from the room, waiting for Millie to turn and _look_ at her, to take back her words.

But she never does and the soft click as the door closes behind her haunts her as she makes her way back to the train.

* * *

 

Lottie hates herself.

She's lifted her father's journals from Evie's desk, scuttled them away to her room and poured over them, aching for something to alleviate her pain, some declaration of love for his daughter that will make her feel something other than the self-loathing that courses through her veins.

But there's nothing, only bitter words in Jonathan Crawley's elegant scrawl about temples and Templars and Pieces of Eden and his daughter with little interest in their _legacy_.

And she hates the considering notes scribbled in margins beside possible temple sights; her name, with a question mark, a single line through it after he'd made up his mind. She could have been in this war so much sooner, could have been liberating London long before the Frye's ever arrived, but instead she'd been gossiping and sitting to tea while her father considered in silence and scored her name out on the pages of his hidden journals.

Tears blur her vision, dripping from her chin and onto the grey pages and the elegant cursive, smudging the words, the hastily drawn sketches. She's sobbing, great heaving breaths that wrack her body and make her shoulders shudder, and she can't stop, no matter what she tries.

Three knocks on her door, a head of dark hair, pulled back from a soft and freckled face peering inside, and then before Lottie knows what's happening, Evie Frye has crossed the small space of Lottie's train car and has pulled her into a tight hug.

She doesn't know what Evie thinks of her now, finds she can't care, but whatever it is the other assassin thinks she's crying for, Lottie's willing to bet it's not that.

Jonathan Crawley's journals lie around her and one is open in her lap but his words are only salt in a wound Millie had created the day before. Lottie's grateful Jacob hasn't sought her out, grateful she hasn't seen him since the night previous, and while her shaking hands reach up to grab his sister, to return her embrace thankfully, she's grateful he's not the one seeing her like this.

"There, now," says Evie gently, "let it all out."

The journal has been safely removed from Lottie's lap, placed delicately on the pile with the others, and she doesn't care in the slightest; there's nothing in them for her, nothing but cold words and scores through her name.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, embarrassed and teary-eyed, drawing away slowly to wipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.

"You don't have to apologise," Evie says warmly but all Lottie can think of is her father's lessons, Evie's father's lessons; _never let personal feelings compromise the mission_.

She worries Evie will see her as less of a person for this, that her good opinion will dwindle into nothingness. Her hands are shaking and she sets them on her lap, clutching at her trousers to steady them.

"I'm losing everything," Lottie admits quietly, an explanation that hurts, and she says nothing more.

* * *

Evie stays and Lottie's grateful and horrified.

It's no lie that Evie Frye is beautiful and deadly and everything Lottie aspires to be and hates at once and she wants nothing more than to bury herself a deep hole in the ground and live in it. That Evie had to see her so broken down and alone is distressing in itself, that she wouldn't leave and has remained by Lottie's side is far worse.

She flicks idly through Jonathan Crawley's journals, though Lottie's sure she must have read them through over and over again, and appears to be searching for something. Lottie's curiosity is piqued, watching the older twin as she turns each page, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Evie," Lottie starts cautiously, and she wipes at her nose, clears her throat when she sounds croaky. "What are you looking for?"

"I came across something interesting," Evie supplies. She says nothing more, and the only sound in the room is the turning of the pages as she flips through them. Finally, she stops and she lays the book on Lottie's bed, lying open on two pages of scribbles and charcoal sketches.

"These," Evie says, pointing at the smudged sketches, tracing them with her fingers, "are _Temples of Eden_."

Lottie stares at Evie, alarmed.

" _Temples_ ," she repeats, hardly believing it. She recalls Evie's excited murmurings after recovering the journals, recalls her mutterings about Temples and swords and apples, but Lottie hadn't felt it necessary to remember anything about them.

"Yes," agrees Evie, and her eyes are alight with joy, with the thrill of information. "Your father, he mentions disappearances." She pauses, and Lottie tears her gaze away from her father's journal to meet Evie's eyes, so like Jacob's but so excited over something so different. "Anyone who walked into these Temples... Lottie, they never re-emerged."

There's a lump in Lottie's throat and a weight like dread in her stomach. She's not sure what Evie was hoping to achieve by telling her this, not sure if how she feels, how she's reacting to this news is how she's supposed to be reacting _at all_ , but she can't find it in herself to be fascinated by this information.

Instead, all she feels is sad.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" presses Evie, distracted and delighted.

"Do you think Amelie..." Lottie pauses, tasting the words, struggling to say them against the dread that's settled in her stomach and the bile rising in her throat. "Do you think she found one of these Temples and..."

Evie seems to recall the source of Lottie's interest in this and Lottie watches her face lose its smile, lose the elated gleam in her eyes. She's sad to see it go, sad to see Evie return to her serious nature after seeing her so thrilled, but the question nags at her, bites at her, and she _has_ to know.

Evie nods, slowly. "It's the only _plausible_ explanation," she says, and Lottie knows she's not imagining the sympathetic smile that quirks her lips.

"I don't understand," Lottie says quietly, shaking her head, and she _doesn't_ – she doesn't understand Amelie, doesn't understand her disappearance, doesn't understand her unescapable need to find out what _happened_ to this woman. She doesn't understand why she feels so _sad_ , doesn't understand why she feels such a connection to this woman, to her fate.

"In truth," Evie starts, "I don't fully understand it myself. I'm sorry."

Lottie balks. "Don't be," she says. The words that leave her mouth next are the truth but they feel as hollow as a lie, "There's nothing we can do for her now."

"But you're right," Evie continues and her dark brows are furrowed. "It is sad. Other than what Edward Kenway wrote about her, there's no information. She just... disappears. As if she never existed at all."

Lottie can't even begin to imagine how that feels, to have lived a life that only one person seems to remember, to disappear from existence itself. That's why she's sad, she thinks; she's sad for Amelie Crawley and for Edward Kenway, for a close pair whose end was so tragic.

Evie holds the journal in her hand, closes it gently, and Lottie can see the words on her lips, the hesitation she's not used to seeing in the woman.

And then, Evie surprises her by saying, "I don't think I've ever truly said it but I am sorry about your father, Lottie. He sounds like a truly great man. I wish I could have met him."

It doesn't sting in the way Lottie expects it to because she knows Jonathan Crawley and Evie Frye would have gotten on like a house on fire. In some part of her mind, the dark part that's holding her in these sad clutches, she thinks Jonathan might have preferred to have Evie as a daughter, preferred her to Lottie, who'd turned her back on their family's legacy and scorned anything to do with assassins.

It's not true, _it's not_ , but her own thoughts sting nonetheless.

"He would have liked to have met you," Lottie says past the lump in her throat.

Evie gathers the journals in her hands, takes Lottie's hand in her own and squeezes it gently, comfortingly, and leaves Lottie to her own tormented thoughts.

* * *

 

"Now where have you been hiding?"

She's finally emerged from her train car after two days or sulking, of crying, of recovering just to remember what she'd read in her father's journal, what Millie had said, what Evie had said. Her sleep has been restless, haunted, and there are ghosts in her head and at her back and she wants rid of them.

She smiles at Jacob, accepts the chaste kiss he places upon her lips in greeting, and squeezes his hand as she pulls away.

"I've demons to confront," she tells him honestly.

"Demons," Jacob repeats, and there's a curious tinge to his voice. "Shall I accompany you?"

And wouldn't that be lovely, Lottie thinks, but this is something she has decided she needs to do alone. She shakes her head and disappointment prickles at her when Jacob's playful expression disappears, replaced with intrigue and concern.

"You'll be alright, won't you?" he asks, and his concern is so misplaced, so foreign to Lottie's ears, that it startles a laugh from her.

"I'll be fine," she says softly, kissing his cheek but recalling Millie's words from two days ago, the conversation she's dreading but needs to have. "There are things we have to discuss," she adds. "We'll talk when I get back."

"You're being awfully secretive, dear Lottie," he returns, and he's playful again, saying, "it all sounds awfully ominous."

_It is_ , she nearly says, but she doesn't want to start the conversation now, not until she's had some time to think about how to approach it. It's all delicate enough, she thinks, only it isn't really, and she should just get it over with. But Lottie's decided she's a coward and she'll address it when she's gathered her courage.

And when Evie's there to back her up.

"Didn't you say Mr Darwin had called on you?" she asks, skilfully changing the subject, and watching Jacob's face fall.

"Yes," he agrees, and Lottie can see the reluctance on his expression and in his body language. "It all sounds terribly boring. Are you sure I can't accompany you?"

"I know Mr Darwin wouldn't appreciate your abandonment, Mr Frye," she teases, and then, with a light shove to encourage him, "Go. The sooner you meet him, the sooner you can have it all over with."

"I hate when you're right," he says, and while Lottie follows him from the train, shares a brief farewell kiss with him, they part ways too soon, and Lottie makes sure he's not looking when she turns towards the Strand.

* * *

 

The skies are grey with the threat of rain and Lottie almost wishes it would fall, wishes it would give her something to focus on other than the self-doubt that courses through her veins and the crippling sadness that forces her to stop on the rooftop opposite her home.

It's exactly like she remembers from those weeks ago when she'd came back with Evie, when she'd visited and helped the other assassin retrieve the journals.

(Though she thinks _helped_ is putting it far too kindly because she hadn't helped at all, had she, she'd found her old room and her old things and she'd cried for the life she's lost.)

The windows are still broken, the door is still off its hinges, and no matter how hard she tries, Lottie just can't find it in herself to go down there, to walk those halls again and to see those destroyed paintings and the overturned furniture. It was so much easier when Evie was with her, her unyielding and silent support she hadn't even known she was giving, and Lottie regrets not accepting Jacob's offer to accompany her.

_No_ , she thinks, _he'd only hinder me_.

She's here to remember, to remind herself what she's fighting for, to remind herself of the promises she'd made the night she'd fled her home, the night she'd pledged that Lynch would fall by her blade.

But eight months have passed, and October is just around the corner, and Lynch still lives and breathes and what excuse does Lottie have, really, for not going after him?

The question is ridiculous, she knows that. She's had work to do, work for the Brotherhood, for Henry Green and Evie and Jacob, and her personal vendetta is just that, _personal_. Jacob knows of her quest for revenge, Jacob knows of the strong Blighter presence in the Strand, of Maxwell Roth in the Alhambra. Jacob knows of her desperation, of her grasping hands that reach for Lynch and continue to come up empty handed.

_I want him dead_ , she thinks, but the conviction and hatred that had laced her words that night so long ago are gone. Her words are hollow and meaningless, and Lottie begins to realise that she's never going to get her revenge, not in the way she wants.

Victor Lynch is a gang leader, she reflects, turning away from her home and clambering down the wall to the street below. Her house is out of sight and she wishes it were out of mind. Victor Lynch is a gang leader standing in the way of Jacob and the Rooks' takeover of London. Jacob would accept his challenge in a gang war, would duel him to the death and end it, quick and clean.

Jacob does not see Lynch the way Lottie does; cruel and cold and a murderer. She demands justice in her own way, with her hidden blade sinking into the flesh of his throat and his mouth gasping her name and pleading her forgiveness.

She realises Jacob can never give her that.

Lottie's absorbed in her thoughts, the heels of her boots scuffing the cobblestones at her feet, and when she turns the corner, she nearly walks straight into another person. They're large and huffing a disbelieving laugh and all Lottie can see is _red_ ; the red jacket, the blood on the hilt of his blade, the red swatch of cloth secured tightly around a wrist.

Her Kukri is at his throat, his back against the nearest wall, and she doesn't know what's stayed her blade, but the Blighter is waving a white handkerchief in her face and wearing a smirk that's arrogant and smug and completely out of place.

Lottie knows him.

He was in the Devil's Acre that night with the Prime Minister's wife; he tried to approach and Lottie had warded him off with a threatening hand on the hilt of her Kukri and cold words. She backs away from him against her better judgement and he's still holding that handkerchief by his face, waving it tauntingly at her.

_A white flag_ , she thinks, _a ceasefire_.

His tosses his head, throwing his hair from his eyes briefly and Lottie's watches it fall back into place, watches him repeat the action over and over. Her eyes rake over the rest of his body, over the tattered black trousers, the boots hanging open and caked with blood and dirt, and something about his countenance is ringing bells in her mind.

She knew him before the Devil's Acre, she recalls, she knew his face.

"You were there," Lottie breathes. "You were there the night my father was murdered."

The Blighter has the audacity to look ashamed, but the look is ruined by the smirk that remains on his lips.

"Aye," he says. "Terribly sorry about that."

He doesn't sound sorry at all.

Lottie's teeth grind together in her fury, and she knows she shouldn't be respecting whatever unspoken rule this white handkerchief, this white flag, holds but there's something holding her back from ending his life, a curiosity about why he would risk her wrath, her blade.

"What do you want?" she demands coldly, in a voice she's seen other Blighter's cower before.

He doesn't even flinch. "I'm no here for a fight, Miss Crawley." He pauses, and Lottie watches as he pulls out a cigar from his pocket and lights it. "You don't mind, do ye?" She says nothing and the alley is filled with the reek of smoke that's grey like the clouds hanging over their heads. "I bring only a message."

"A message," Lottie repeats sceptically, and if Jacob could see her now, standing here instead of slitting his throat...

"Aye," says the Blighter, inclining his head. "From my Boss. I believe ye know him. Mr Lynch."

The man has an uncanny knack for finding his way into Lottie's life when she's growing impatient, when she's straying from the path she'd set for herself that night so long ago.

She tries to remain cool and collected, but her blood is boiling and there's a rage behind her eyes.

"I'm familiar with his name," she hisses.

The Blighter inclines his head again. "He expresses his sympathies for yer father's passing," he says and Lottie finds it hard to believe the words he's saying because of the smug smirk he has plastered across his face, "and he regrets what 'appened."

"A little late for that, isn't it?" Lottie bites back, losing the cool demeanour she had and her words are laced with the fury she's felt for months, the fury she's hidden away and diverted at her targets, her _other_ targets. "He's been dead for _eight months_."

The words are blunt and angry and hold none of the pain that usually accompanies Lottie's thoughts of her father. These words are said in the heat of the moment, in the face of her enemy, her first _real_ lead to Lynch in months – the first lead Jacob isn't standing with her for. She could pursue this, she starts to think, planning three steps ahead already. She could interrogate this smug Blighter, pull Lynch's location from his dying breaths, and kill Lynch without Jacob knowing. Without Lynch, there would be no gang war, no risk of Jacob being bested in a fight, no risk of Jacob being struck down because Lottie couldn't reach her pistol, because Evie wasn't there to help.

"He also says," the Blighter continues, unconcerned, and Lottie's mind is still reeling with possibilities, with plans that could protect those she's come to care about, "that 'e's not the one you should be turning your blade to."

He looks proud, ridiculously so, and Lottie's not impressed. She steels her spine, curls her lip in a snarl, and her hand rests on the hilt of her Kukri once more, white _flag_ be damned. Now is her time – Lynch is within her grasp.

"Of course he is," she snaps. She's about to draw her blade and start her hunt; enough talking, she thinks, enough planning, enough gang wars. "He murdered him!"

The Blighter cocks his head, as if in agreement with these words. She watches his eyes dart to her hand, to the blade at her thigh, and he's so unconcerned by the danger he's in by being in her presence – she's going to _show him_ , she thinks, gritting her teeth. He's in more danger from her than the Frye's, especially in the humour she's in, especially with the hatred and anger flowing through her.

"True," he says, slowly. He pushes off from the wall where Lottie realises he's been leaning idly this whole time. And then he says, "But if it weren't for Mr and Miss Frye seeking 'im out, y'see, Mr Lynch would never 'ave 'ad to off ol' Mr Crawley."

She shouldn't believe it – she _doesn't_ want to – but her eyes go wide and her furious rage has been replaced instead with wary confusion. She shakes her head, slowly at first, disbelieving, recalling Evie's earlier words – _I wish I could have met him_ – and remembering her nights with Jacob, all those nights she's spoken about her father, mourned him, so openly, so _freely_ with someone who understands.

Evie would have mentioned it, she tries to convince herself. Evie would never have led her to believe that she never knew the man, that she hadn't met him at least once. Evie wouldn't lie to her. Jacob wouldn't lie to her, they would have mentioned it, Henry would have mentioned it, Jacob would have _mentioned it_.

Surely he would have mentioned it...

But then he's lied to her already, she starts to think; Millie's children, the bruises and scars from the Blighters when they aren't quick enough. He's kept that to himself, kept that a dark secret hidden away from her. Is this any different?

"You're lying," she says but there's a wobble in her voice and a crease in her brow, betraying her thoughts, betraying her emotions.

The Blighter shrugs and it's infuriating how calm he has remained.

"Am I?" he returns and those two words are enough to make Lottie's world crumble from beneath her. He stuffs the white handkerchief back in his pocket and this is her _chance_ , she should take it, but her hands are shaking and her lip is trembling and she feels like a little girl, standing in the face of her demons and defenceless.

He turns the corner at the mouth of the alley and is gone.


	24. Those We Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie comes to a realisation.

Jacob _knows_ there's something troubling her.

She thinks that perhaps _troubling_ is putting it too lightly; she feels _tormented_. The Blighter's words ring in her head as she drifts off to sleep, as she aids Evie Frye with some research that would be of little interest to her anyway if she was capable of paying attention. Evie notes that there's something on her mind as well and even goes so far as to mention that she looks _tired_.

And Lottie _feels_ tired; she hasn't been sleeping properly, after all, haunted by bold words as she is, and the nightmares she has managed to stave off with drink are returning tenfold, stronger than ever, and Lottie spends her nights tossing and turning and getting next to no sleep at all.

She's distraught and angry and confused and stewing on words that should know better than to listen to. Lottie knows she shouldn't trust the source – the Blighter said he was there on behalf of _Lynch_ , after all, and after everything Lynch has been doing to her, the last thing she wants is to fall into some sort of trap of his.

Lottie _knows_ that trusting those words is a mistake but that doesn't mean she can easily dismiss them.

So she stews and stews and walks alone for miles and well into the night, finding herself night after night standing on the rooftop opposite her home and thinking she can see lights inside. It's not possible, she knows this, because she was there herself not too long ago, and her home has been abandoned for months now. It's her overactive imagination, seeing things that aren't there, _wanting_ things she can't anymore.

She's been off the bottle for a week now, shrugging off hands that clap her shoulders and voices that holler for her to join them after a good fight, avoiding kisses from Jacob Frye who remains oblivious to the whirlwind of rage and anger within her.

Lottie is at a loss, confused and more alone than ever, and wishing she still had Millie, still had someone to confide in about this.

Millie doesn't know about Lynch, Lottie thinks, no more than that there's some connection to Lottie and that he was behind the kidnapping of her children. All Millie knows is that whatever problem Lottie has with Lynch, she and her children were drawn in by association only. If only Lottie could explain to her, explain her jumbled mess of thoughts and ask for her advice – it's been so long since she saw her friend, Lottie's not even sure what the older woman _would_ say to it all.

Her feet have led her to the Strand again, to the street that runs parallel to her home, and there are Blighters everywhere she looks, watching her as warily as she watches them. She wonders if they know what's going through her head; do they know that she's close to snapping? Do they worry that she's finally coming to her senses?

 _Is_ she finally coming to her senses?

Lottie starts to think again that perhaps she's been wasting her time with the assassins. Every bad thing that's happened to her, everything that's gone wrong in the past few months – it's all happened because she sought them out instead of going after Lynch herself. Lynch went after Millie's children because of Lottie and Jacob, because Lottie went to the Frye's. She's no doubt in her mind now that she should have left London when she had the chance – that working with the Frye's brought her under Lynch's scrutiny once more, that working with the Frye's put her oldest friend in danger, that working with the Frye's _continues_ to put those she cares about in danger.

 _I should have killed him and been done with it_ , Lottie thinks, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

She continues to walk, deeper into the Strand, deeper into Lynch's territory and part of her wishes the man himself would stroll round the next corner, that she could strike him down here and now and finally rid herself of this problem.

She has no such luck – but she meets the next best thing.

The _Bed and Bottle_ is an unassuming place at first glance and if Lottie was unaware of the pair who owned it, she'd even consider renting a room. There's a sign over the door that creaks when it swings and surprisingly clean windows that have Lottie wondering which Blighter drew the short straw for that chore. There are shutters painted pale blue, hanging off their hinges, and at the door painted the same colour, she sees Argus Bartlett.

He's tall and stocky, leaning against the doorframe and speaking to someone out of Lottie's view. He lifts a hand to his lips, to the cigar he holds with his thumb and forefinger, and Lottie watches the trail of grey smoke as he exhales. It forms a circle, perfect for a fleeting moment, and then it's gone.

Argus Bartlett tosses the cigar to the cobblestones, crushes it under his boot, and disappears inside.

Lottie's seen their portraits on Evie's desk, has heard Henry discussing them with Jacob; they need to die, she thinks, to weaken the Blighter hold on the Strand even further. If _she_ did it, maybe it would draw out that Blighter again, the one with his _white flag_ and maybe this time she wouldn't freeze up in front of him. Maybe this time she could demand answers before he strides away from her.

Maybe this time she can find her lead to Lynch and take care of this problem once and for all.

Her decision is made.

Lottie strides towards the _Bed and Bottle_ , determination in each step and an angry glower fixated on the doorway Argus Bartlett just disappeared through.

If she was thinking clearly, she'd use her rope launcher and study the area. If she was thinking clearly, she'd request help from the Rooks she can see loitering by the corner, acting as unsubtlety as possible. If she was thinking clearly, she'd remember that the last time she did something like this, Henry and Evie grounded her from assassinations.

It Lottie was thinking clearly she'd know that this can only end badly for her.

She steps boldly through the door and into the crowded bar of the _Bed and Bottle_ , spying Argus Bartlett leaning idly against the counter by the furthest wall. He's surrounded by a sea of red jackets and black sashes and bowler hats and Lottie should be afraid, she should be aware that she's vastly outnumbered and outgunned here, but she has eyes only for Bartlett, lighting up another cigar and meeting her eyes from across the room.

He chuckles loudly and boisterously and thumps his hand on the bar top as if he can't quite believe it. All eyes turn to Lottie in the doorway and she's fire and fury and unaware of the lecherous grins and the wicked smirks and the hands reaching for their weapons.

"Rose," Argus Bartlett hollers, and Lottie doesn't dare tear her eyes away from him, not even as he waves towards the dark haired woman in the doorway, not even as the woman approaches him with chapped lips tugged upwards in a bemused smirk.

Rose Bartlett looks at Lottie like the cat that's got the cream. The two Templars share whispered words and Lottie's too angry to be worried about the malicious looks they're sending her way, nor the words they whisper and what they've got to do with her.

"I am only going to ask this once," she says and her voice carries in the silence of the pub, drawing the eyes of the Templars at the bar and hushing their conversation. "Where is Victor Lynch?"

Lottie's past formalities now, past dancing around the Templar the way he dances around her; teasing her from the shadows. She can feel his presence but cannot see him and she's had enough.

"Of course," crows Rose Bartlett. She reaches inside her jacket and Lottie mirrors her, drawing her pistol at almost the exact same time, standing in the same position, the muzzle aimed at Rose's head. "We'll take you to him ourselves, love."

"I'd rather you just give me a location," she snaps. "Save you making the journey."

"We don't mind in the slightest," adds Argus Bartlett. "We'll even throw in an armed escort – won't we, lads?"

"Well then," says a voice behind Lottie and her spine steels as her eyes narrow. She doesn't want this, she doesn't want him here; she hates that he keeps showing up when she's _close_ , hates that he keeps showing him when he's the last person she wants to see right now. "I suppose it's a good thing she's already got one."

Jacob doesn't look at her and she doesn't look at him, but she can see the clenching of his jaw like she's sure he can see the furious grinding of her teeth.

"Jacob Frye," greets Argus Bartlett and on Lottie's other side, Jack and Bonny stand, armed and wary. Behind her, Lottie can feel the stares of the other Rooks. "Fancy seein' you so deep in the Strand."

"Thought it was time for a change of scenery," returns Jacob easily. "It's been a while since I've had a good brawl."

Lottie's rage is unbridled, pressing at her insistently; _a good brawl_ , she wants to scream _, this is about more than that_!

It's Jacob all over, she thinks angrily, dismissing the real issue and searching for a good fight, _damn the consequences_. She can hear Evie in her head, hear her father, their unheeded warnings and Jonathan Crawley's lessons that's Lottie dismissed, so intoxicated with the thrill of Jacob Frye.

"Well," says Rose mockingly, and Lottie's skin crawls as the Blighters around them start to get to their feet. "The _Bed and Bottle_ is the best inn in London! We're known for our _hospitality._ "

The first of the gunshots comes from the Blighter nearest Argus and Jacob moves fast, pushing her aside and shielding her with his body. His hands grip her arms firmly and she can see the frustrated anger in his eyes as they flicker over her face, a question on his lips that she avoids answering.

Lottie tugs her arms free and launches herself into the brawl, over and under broken tables, ignoring Jacob's shout after her. She has eyes for the Bartlett's and no one else and her mouth is already forming the questions she _needs_ the answers to.

" _Lottie_! Bloody hell-!"

She's not sure who's spoken and she doesn't particularly care, because Rose is fleeing at the sight of her, terrified, and Argus is stepping in her path and lifting an arm, brass knuckles glinting in the light.

She ducks too late and his punch catches her in the shoulder, throwing her careening into the table to her left. Lottie gasps, the pain white hot and distracting, and Rose has disappeared around the corner and out of sight. She grits her teeth, hears Jacob shouting, and her hand grips the table tightly as she reaches for her Kukri, for some form of defence against the brute of a man rounding on her and going to strike again.

There's a gunshot and a wound in Argus's arm that blossoms red. He screams, falling backwards and stumbling away from her, and Jacob Frye thunders towards them, throwing himself at Argus Bartlett with unrestrained rage.

Clutching her shoulder and sparing her fellow assassin no thought, Lottie takes off after Rose, knowing a lost lead when she sees one and feeling her last one slipping through her fingers.

 _I have to get Rose before Jacob_ , Lottie thinks and her hand grazes the doorframe as she passes. Behind her, she hears Jacob shout her name again, hears Argus Bartlett's body slump to the floor, and a Rook shouting for her Boss.

There's a labyrinth of walls and hedges on the other side of the _Bed and Bottle_ , and Lottie can hear Rose's voice, shrieking for her fellow Blighter's, choked with sobs. She makes a split second decision and takes to the arm, lifting her arm and firing her rope launcher.

The biting wind feels treacherous as Lottie hops from roof to roof, spying Rose so far below and Jacob emerging from the bar. Adrenaline pumps through her veins as she leaps from the roof, snatching Rose from above and crushing the woman's body into the cobblestones below.

The woman's startled squawk rings in Lottie's ears and her shoulder twitches in discomfort. She grits her teeth against the pain, lifting her arm to unsheathe her hidden blade.

"Lynch," she hisses, "tell me where he is."

She'll make no allusions to letting the woman keep her life; Rose Bartlett is still a Templar and she's still on Henry's list and if Lottie spares her life, she doesn't doubt that someone else will take it soon anyway.

"I don't know," Rose Bartlett whimpers, " _no one_ does!" Lottie shifts, pressing the sharp tip of her hidden blade against the woman's throat, hearing Jacob's heavy boots thundering across the courtyard towards them.

"What do you mean?" she demands.

"He- He doesn't trust anyone with his location! Not even –"

" _Some_ one must know," insists Lottie. Her blade nicks the woman's neck and Lottie's eyes flicker to the bead that rises from the cut.

The woman shakes her head desperately. "No one!"

"You _told_ me you'd take me to him."

"We weren't going to!" She shouts and Lottie's tired of running in circles. "Argus- h-he wanted to kill you, send your 'ead back to Frye!"

She acts irrationally, the rage and frustration that's been so prominent and festering finally reaching its boiling point. Her shout is unintelligible and manic and Rose's eyes are wide as she coughs up blood. Lottie withdraws her hidden blade and stands and she feels Jacob stopping behind her, at her shoulder. He doesn't speak and he doesn't need to; she can feel his confusion, his frustration, just as easily as she can feel her own.

"Lottie," he breathes, and she shrugs off the hand that reaches for her, the gentle touch that weeks ago she would have received gladly. "Bugger it, Lottie, what the hell was that?"

"That was a _good brawl_ ," Lottie spits. She doesn't look at him. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You know that's not what I mean," he says. Lottie scoffs and her heels click on the cobblestones as she walks away. He doesn't let her go so easily; the words are on the tip of her tongue – _I'll see you back at the train_ – and they'd be so easy to say but somehow they just won't come out.

She's got nowhere else to go, nowhere that Jacob won't be as well; Millie doesn't want to see her, not until Jacob's seen sense, and Lottie can hardly stand to look at him without feeling angry and betrayed. How can she possibly talk sense into the man when right now all she wants is to kill him?

"Oi," Jacob says, and when she still doesn't stop his hand grasps her elbow and forces her to. She grits her teeth and clenches her fist, staring at the wall, refusing to look at him, and she's reminded so much of that time so long ago, _months_ ago, when he told her he _missed_ her. There's nothing like that anymore; she doesn't need _time_ now.

What she _needs_ is to escape.

His voice is softer now. "What's gotten in to you, eh?"

 _You have_ , she wants to say. _You've gotten under my skin and destroyed everything, changed everything I want._

Instead, what comes out of her mouth is, "I know about the children, Jacob."

Her words are venomous and fuelled with her temper, worsened only by the vacant look on Jacob's face. She can understand Evie's irritation, can understand perfectly how his sister feels now that she's on the receiving end of that infuriating look.

"'Course you do, love," he says, and he seems genuinely perplexed.

She bares her teeth at him, feels some pleasure when he steps back with his surprise showing clearly on his face, and she smacks his hand away again when he reaches for her.

"The _injuries_ , Jacob," she snaps. "I know about the _injuries_."

The recognition Lottie expects to see cross his face never comes; he remains blank, staring at her like she's grown another head.

"Lottie," he says, huffing a laugh. "I've no idea what you mean- Lottie!"

She's turned on her heel, storming away from him, and she can hear the exhausted exasperation that laces his words as he pursues. She slips from his grasp whenever he reaches for her, slaps his hands away and spits harsh words to deter him but he's persistent, in all the ways Lottie knows.

There are crowds of Rooks waiting for them on the station, loitering and smoking – Evie hates them smoking on the train, Lottie thinks, and she's not overly fond of it herself – and they shout greetings that she ignores, clap their Boss on the back as he passes. They receive very little response from Jacob, so preoccupied as he is with her, and she doesn't acknowledge him again until they stand on the train, before the Templar wall with the portraits and their red crosses.

 _Lynch should have his own red cross_ , Lottie thinks, _I should have killed him by now_.

"Don't lie to me," she warns.

Jacob lifts his hand and motions a cross over his heart but the amused smirk on his lips does nothing to calm her rage. He seems to realise this.

"I would never," he says and Lottie can't decipher if he's joking or not.

She should press about Millie's children, about their injuries and Jacob's involvement, about Jacob's apparent obliviousness. She shouldn't be thinking about that Blighter and his white flag, she shouldn't be thinking about what he said, about the words thrown at her in the darkness of that alley – _but if it weren't for Mr and Miss Frye seeking 'im out, y'see, Mr Lynch would never 'ave 'ad to off ol' Mr Crawley_.

So what she asks instead is the question that's been tormenting her for days now.

"Did you meet my father?" she asks bitingly, bitterly, hands clenched at her sides as her glowering eyes fix on Jacob's scoffing face. He looks astounded.

"No," he tells her, and if Lottie were thinking clearly she'd believe him, give him the benefit of the doubt, but why would the Blighter say so otherwise? She can't think of anything else other than the fact that Jacob is _lying_ to her – and how many times has he done that, she begins to think, her thoughts going off on a tangent with her fury, how many times has he lied to her since meeting her?

"Stop lying to me," she bites out, "stop _bloody_ lying to me!"

"I'm _not_!" He returns. He holds up his hands, reaching out for her, an attempt to placate. "What's brought this on? Is this why you went after the Bartlett's?"

"That has nothing to _do_ with this-"

"You walked in to a Templar stronghold manned by two of the toughest bastards in the Strand, Lottie!"

She throws her hands up dismissively and scoffs. There are bitter words in her throat – if it hadn't been her, if it had been _his_ idea to storm the _Bed and Bottle_ , he wouldn't be so confused and irritated. He'd be thrilled, exhilarated, and probably celebrating another victory with his Rooks, drinking and cheering and recalling what a _good brawl_ it was.

"Lottie, listen to me," Jacob says, drawing her from her angry thoughts, still reaching for her. "This is the Blighters, don't let yourself be fooled by – "

"This isn't about your bloody _gang_ , Jacob," Lottie thunders, tugging her arms from his grasp, feeling nothing but the brush of his fingers before she's isolated herself again. "This isn't about _you_!"

"Yes, it _is_!" His voice is as loud as hers, drawing the attention of the Rooks in the doorway of the other car, drawing their eyes and concerned gazes, the frowns as they watch Lottie and Jacob implode. "This is Lynch, Lottie, can't you see that? This is _Lynch_!"

There's a pause between them, a second of reprieve in the tension in the air, and Lottie can see the relieved looks on the faces of the Rooks, thinking that this might be the end.

Jacob's reaching for her again and _oh_ , how she would love to let go of her anger, let the tension out from her limbs and let him _hold her_ , like he's been doing, like he clearly wants to.

But she can't.

"I don't need your help," she hears herself saying but she sounds so far away, as if she's hearing herself through water.

She ignores the hurt look that crosses his features; it's gone in an instant, fleetingly, there one second and gone the next, but Lottie knows she hasn't imagined it. She could never imagine that expression crossing his face, not when it made her heart _hurt_ and made her feel as though she was stone.

She wants to apologise, to gather him in her arms and sob her heart out, to tell him she doesn't mean it.

But he's _lying_ to her – if not for the Frye's her father would still be alive, this she believes more than anything else in the world. This, she believes now, is as close to fact as she's going to get.

She asks again, "Did you and your sister ever meet my father?"

She watches the emotions cross Jacob's face; the anger and frustration, the _reluctance_ , and finally the guilt.

"Once," he admits, and then, stressing the word like it will make it all _better_. " _Briefly_."

So he – and Evie and Henry, _all of them_ – has been lying to her, or withholding the truth; it's all the same now.

"Lottie," Jacob says but she's not listening, not anymore.

Lottie can feel herself back in that alleyway, with that Blighter standing so arrogantly before her, acting like he has some kind of hold on her and now she can see that he did. She's wasting her time here, she thinks, wasting her time with liars.

She can feel herself back in her home that night, can feel herself tip toeing towards the door to her father's study, hearing the voices, the shouts and then the fated gunshot that still rings in her ears.

 _Lynch_ , she thinks, _it's always him, everything's about him_. _So long as he's alive, I'll never be free_.

"You met my father and Lynch murdered him," Lottie says aloud, the cogs turning in place, the puzzle pieces coming together, and it's not a coincidence, it's _not_. "My father died because he dared meet the two assassins who started a revolution in London."

" _He_ sought _us_ out," Jacob says quickly and all Lottie can hear are excuses from the mouth of a guilty man, excuses that don't change the fact her father _is_ dead. "He came to us, Lottie, not the other way around."

"That doesn't change anything," Lottie says softly, the softest voice she has used since their argument started. Jacob seems to hope at this, she notes, his expression softening too, his hands reaching for her again, fingers dancing across her cheeks as he brushes her hair from her teary eyes.

She misses his touch in the moments afterward, when he jerks away from her as if burned.

"My father is dead," she says coldly, nothing like the breathless exhalation of disbelief from a drunken soul, nothing like the simple statement of fact from a mourning mind. This is said accusingly. "He's dead because of _you_."

She has no excuse for the words that leave her mouth after, said laced in the anger pulsing through her veins, venomously.

"I should never have trusted you."

She should never have trusted the assassins, never sought them out; she should have never readily helped Henry; she should have never allowed herself to grow close to Evie; she should have _never_ told Jacob about Lynch, about her father, about her _feelings_.

She should have never grown as close to him as she did, never let herself _feel_ for him.

 _Never let personal feelings compromise the mission_.

 _It's over_ , Lottie thinks, stepping out of the reach of his hands again, swatting them away when he tries to stop her. _It's over_.

"Lottie," Jacob tries, and she's never heard him sound so pleading, so softly broken.

"I'm done," she whispers and then, louder, "This is over."

 _I can do this on my own_.

She watches his face change again, watches the brokenness dissolve and turn into a familiar reaction; anger. She feels better, now that she's not the only one yelling, now that she's not the only one _feeling_ something and reacting.

"You're a fool," he tells her furiously, "a _bloody_ fool."

And Lottie says the first thing that comes to mind, "Better a fool than a liar."

Jacob scoffs and Lottie's on the receiving end of his biting tongue as he says, "Don't act like a saint, Lottie – we both know you're far from." Lottie opens her mouth to retort, to start throwing her own verbal knives, but he speaks over her, until he's almost yelling, until Lottie can see the pained looks on the faces of the Rooks, the flinches and turns of the head. "You've done nothing but lie since you got here! There was nothing stopping you being honest with us, nothing but your own damned stubbornness!"

"You're one to bloody talk!" she gets in but Jacob won't stop, not long enough for her to add anything else.

"You're a damned fool," and it's not the first time Lottie's heard the words; Millie had told her the same thing, thrown the words in a hissing breath and Lottie begins to realise the woman is probably right. She is a fool and so is he and while she's coming to her senses, slowly, angrily, he still can't see it.

He says the words breathlessly and his fists are clenching and unclenching as he aches for a fight – he's going to a fight club after this, Lottie thinks, or he'll charge unthinkingly into a gang stronghold for some Blighters to vent his anger upon.

"No more than you," she returns coolly but her thoughts are running rampant with her words. "Do you take great pleasure in causing harm to innocent people? To _children_? Does it thrill you?"

She sounds like Evie, like his _father,_ she's willing to bet, because his jaw tightens and his eyes go cold. It's a low blow, even from her, even for this situation, but now that she's started she can't stop.

"I'm _stubborn_ ," she says mockingly, "perhaps you should look in the mirror!"

A breath, a pause. The Rooks are fidgeting in the doorway. Lottie sees Jack and Bonny pushing their way to the front, looking upon the scene with worried gazes that she can't meet, not like this, not so swallowed in the anger she feels.

"Go then," he snaps finally, and they're both breathing heavily and glowering at each other and for the life of her Lottie can't remember why she was ever attracted to this impetuous and _awful_ man.

"Fine," she returns hotly, furiously, storming past him on her way out. Their shoulders brush, but his eyes, heated and furious, stare resolutely ahead. She passes Jack and Bonny and the other Rooks at the door, lingering uncomfortably, and holds her head high.

"When you fail," Jacob calls to her, tauntingly, mockingly, "don't bother coming back."

"I won't," she tells him, and it's a statement and a promise.

She refuses to cry as she steps out into the bitter October wind, and she puts the blurring of her vision down to the chill in the evening.


	25. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie's stubbornness costs a life.

Her hand rests lazily on the neck of the bottle as she scowls at the knife marks in the table, alone and lonely and rueful, but remembering Jacob's words those months ago; _good partnerships never last_. 

She was a fool to think theirs would be any different.

Lottie downs the bottle and throws some money on the table, getting to her feet and readying herself to leave once more. She's not worried about being watched the way she was the last time she did something like this; there's no way Jacob will be interested in having the Rooks on the lookout for her now, not after all that's happened between them.

The thought is not as comforting as she thinks it should be.

The pub she has chosen is far away from those the Rooks frequent anyway and it's been days since she's worried about being spotted, about being approached. Her first week alone had seen to that, so anxious as she had been about them seeking her out, demanding answers, demanding her return to the assassins, to Evie and Henry, to Jacob.

But aside from curious side-long glances and confused stares whenever they saw her prowling the streets, alone and angry, there has been no contact.

_Fine_ , Lottie huffs, drawing her hood over her head and watching as her breath mists in the early November air. _I don't need them anyway_.

Dark clouds hang over her head and over the city, threatening rain and snow, and it's been weeks since she's been out of the Strand. She's heard nothing of Lynch nor his whereabouts and Lottie's reminded of Rose Bartlett's last words – no one knows where he is.

_Someone must_ , she'd snapped in return but she's quickly realising that the dead woman might just be right. She frowns angrily at the cobblestones under her feet and thinks again, _Someone must_.

Lynch has thrown himself into hiding like the snake he is and everywhere Lottie turns on the streets she once called home there are Rooks. They stride along the roads, in the seats of carriages, cane swords held loosely in their hands and yellow sashes around their necks and waists, comfortable in the power Jacob Frye has given them. They don't bother her and she doesn't bother them, though she sees the recognition in their eyes, familiar like the rage that continues to pulse in her veins.

It has ebbed only slightly with the distance between Lottie and Jacob and in its place has come a weary understanding.

Leaving was inevitable; there's no other way for her to enact her vengeance, no other way for her to kill Lynch. Jacob was never going to help her, she thinks, clenching her fist at her side and turning her face to the sky as the first snowflakes begin to fall. They dust along her cheeks, along her lashes, and if things were different, she'd find some peace standing here.

She's alone, _truly_ alone, for the first time in months, with no allies and no friends. She wants to feel liberated, wants to feel like _this_ is what she's always wanted, right from the start, but she can't.

She adjusts the collar of her jacket against the cold and ducks her head against the biting wind. She's had enough of ruminating on the past, on mistakes, on regrets, on assassins and Templars.

_Time to get started_.

* * *

Of all the people she expects to seek her out, Clara O'Dea is not one of them.

There's a ratty shawl around her shoulders and tucked under her arms. Her dark hair is still in the messy braids Lottie remembers from the first time she met her, but the young girl looks older and wiser than her years.

"Miss Lottie," Clara greets, as Lottie's leaning against a wall in an alley and nursing her shoulder. It's still bothering her and the more she fights, the more she demands answers to her questions that the Blighters in the Strand don't seem to have, the worse it seems to get.

_Of all my regrets_ , she thinks, pressing gingerly at the bruising, now green and brown rather than the ugly purple it had been weeks ago, _this might just be the worst_.

It's not true – how can it be, when the words she'd spoken on the train haunt her with every breath?

Lottie's tried to drown them in whiskey, tried to fight them from her system, but while that seems to work for Jacob Frye, it does nothing more than let them fester inside her.

"Clara," she returns with a nod. She checks her shoulder, rolls it, and turns to face the girl. "How are you?"

The last time Lottie had seen the girl – how long ago? Months? – she'd been ill and suffering from Jacob's (and hers, she recalls with some irritation) ill-thought out plan to kill Dr Elliotson.

Clara nods. "Very well," she says. "The children in Babylon Alley have been listening out for news of you."

"Whatever for?" The thought of Jacob fuels the venom in her words. "Another order from Jacob Frye, I take it?"

Clara's perplexed expression gives Lottie pause.

"Why would it be?"

Lottie huffs and casts her eyes to the sky, begging for patience and civility in spite of her anger towards the man, towards the other assassin. Clara and her urchins have done nothing wrong; Clara does not deserve Lottie's ire.

"A little boy, actually," muses Clara, and for how young she is, Lottie is struck by how guarded her words are, by how _old_ she seems. "Daniel, I think his name is."

_Daniel_ , Lottie thinks, and the scowl set on her face slackens at his name. _Little Daniel_ , who walked in on her that first night so long ago with a nightmare; little Daniel who told her Ethan was missing; little Daniel who found her after Millie's attack, after the other children's kidnapping.

_What a little hero_ , Lottie thinks with a fond smile, leaning against the wall and sighing heavily.

"Daniel," Lottie says aloud, and there's a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes and for the life of her she can't understand why she feels this way.

"He's been asking for you," Clara pipes up.

Lottie turns her face away and wipes at her eyes, feeling the sting of tears and loathe to let them fall in the presence of this young girl.

"Has he now?" she asks softly. "Whatever for?"

Clara considers her words carefully.

"I've no love for Mr Frye," she says and Lottie's expression darkens and she speaks before Clara can continue, bitter words that haven't lost their sting in the weeks spent apart from him.

"You are not alone in that regard," she snarls, clenching her jaw and fists and feeling burning anger returning to her chest.

"He's not the sense he was born with," continues the girl, "but he's never harmed the children."

_Lies_ , Lottie thinks, and she opens her mouth to tell her so, to tell her just what Jacob's done, just what his selfish wishes have brought upon the children in London, but Clara talks over her, pressingly gentle, and her words force Lottie to listen, to _wait_.

"He paid your friend a visit," she says, "offered his apologies and gave dear Missus Millie a bag of money to pay for medical care."

Lottie blinks, speechless, and there's an understanding smile on Clara's face.

She shrugs. "I'm amazed he saw sense, Miss, if I'm honest. Although the Rooks he left in charge got a right telling off."

It doesn't seem possible to her at first – in her anger she had been sure he was to blame, sure that all Millie had told her led back to him, that his refusal to take responsibility had ruined her friendship with Millie, ruined the faith the woman had in her. But now Clara's telling her Jacob really had no idea and Lottie's recalling their argument again, words thrown like daggers – _I know about the children, Jacob_ and his reply, confused, _'course you do_.

"He didn't know," she says aloud, the cogs turning and while she's ashamed of the silent accusations, the words she held back that she knows he knew she wanted to say, her anger diminishes only minutely. It doesn't change anything else; he still lied to her, even if he's fixed one of those mistakes.

"I've heard he made a promise, Miss Lottie," Clara adds, and she looks ready to leave, "to Daniel."

"Oh?"

Lottie can't imagine why Jacob would make a promise to Daniel, would make any kind of promise that has anything to do with her after everything that's happened, and she almost doesn't want to hear the words. Why would he make promises he can't keep, she thinks, why would he lie to someone else the way he's lied to her?

"He promised Daniel that he'd bring you back, Miss."

* * *

 

"Well, well," Jack crows, sliding effortlessly into the seat opposite her. "Fancy seein' you here, stranger."

"If you're here for your Boss, you can –"

"We're here for _us_ ," says Bonny, coming to a stop at Jack's shoulder, and while her words are said sincerely, Lottie's paranoid since her conversation with Clara, and sure that Jacob will walk through the door any minute now. She's not ready for that conversation.

"We miss ya, Lottie."

Lottie hesitates, biting words on her tongue that she thinks she should say; this is _her_ fight, she doesn't need anyone's help. But she's alone and lonely and some company wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Slowly, she nods.

"Mr Frye doesn't know we're here," Bonny confides with a sly smirk and one-shouldered shrug. "We thought it might be best that way."

"We also over'eard somethin' interestin'," pipes up Jack. "About yer man, Lunch."

" _Lynch_ , Jack," corrects Bonny quietly.

"Er, aye. Him."

And Lottie has missed them terribly. There's a smile flitting across her face, soft and near forgotten, and she downs the last of her drink and starts to get to her feet. There are Blighters crowded in the corner, watching the three of them menacingly.

"Tell me," she says, nodding towards the door.

There's a thin layer of snow on the ground, from a fall that lasted most of the night previous, and Lottie adjusts her collar against the piercing cold of the afternoon, turning her eyes skyward.

"There's more on the way," mutters Jack, rubbing his hands together and shuffling his shoulders. "The kids'll be thrilled."

_Yes_ , Lottie thinks, because she remembers a time when she was younger. She loved winter as a little girl, loved snowball fights with her father before she became older and the Brotherhood became all she knew. Now she would rather be contentedly withdrawn from it all, watching from the warmth of the room she longer has.

"How are they?" asks Bonny behind her, as they pass by an open alleyway. "Is Martha well?"

"Well enough," says Jack and Lottie looks over her shoulder just as he lights up a cigar. "She's starting to feel the weight of little Georgie though."

"You're married?" she asks around a surprised smile.

"Aye," replies Jack. "Happily." He pauses to think. "I'd say six years now."

_Wow_ , Lottie thinks, because for all the nights she's spent drinking with Jack and Bonny, not once has she asked about their lives outside the Rooks, about their lives _before_ the Rooks, about the families the Rooks support because of Jacob Frye's leadership.

"Georgie," Bonny muses thoughtfully. "A good name for a good strong lad."

"Aye," replies Jack, around a cloud of grey smoke. "Also a nickname for a beautiful young lass, should that happen."

"I thought you were sure it was a boy?"

"Well, I was, but then Martha's _mother_ came round and she seems to reckon – by the bump and all that shite, I wasn't right listenin' – that she's carrying a girl. George for a lad, Georgiana for a lass."

"Georgiana's a beautiful name," Lottie comments.

Jack nods. "I'll tell Martha you said that, Miss Lottie."

They stop by a park, abandoned in the cold and the flower beds coated in white. Jack hops up onto the wall, kicking his heels into the stone rhythmically and Bonny stands at his side, leaning idly against what Lottie can only assume is freezing cold stone.

Bonny adjusts the yellow scarf around her neck, nose bright red and running, and huffs quietly. She rubs her hands together in the same way Jack had when they'd exited the pub, and Lottie can see the skin is cracked and bleeding in places.

Lottie slides her hands from her gloves and tosses them to the other woman.

"Oh, no, Lottie, I couldn't," Bonny starts, but Lottie shakes her head.

"You've more need of them than I," she says with a shrug, burying her hands in her pockets and casting her eyes around the abandoned park thoughtfully. Bonny bashfully mumbles her thanks after much convincing from Jack to _just wear the damn gloves, Bonny,_ and her Lottie's eyes land on a rook, perched delicately on the lamp post, its sleek black feathers dusted with snow.

She hums thoughtfully, watching the bird as it watches her, tilting its head this way and that, and adjusting its position against the wind that ruffles its feathers.

"What's this news of Lynch?" she asks, drawing her eyes back to the two by the wall.

"Ah, aye," says Jack, tossing his cigar aside. Bonny crushes it under her boot. "The man's in hidin', Lottie, and there's only a select few who know of 'is whereabouts. If we're goin' to find 'im, we need to locate one o' 'is Enforcers."

Lottie pauses, words on the tip of her tongue, and finally manages to gasp, "You're not coming _with_ me."

"'Course we are," returns Bonny easily. "We didn't come all this way to be left behind."

"I can't let you –"

"Hate t' be the one t' break this to ya, Lottie," Jack cuts in, digging in his pockets for something, "but _you_ are not our Boss. Our Boss isn't here."

"We're here by our choice," Bonny adds, "and we want to help you."

_I don't need your help_ , Lottie wants to say, _I don't need anyone's help_.

They're the same words that haunt her thoughts, that haunt her memories of Jacob and Evie and Henry, that blindly encourage her because there's no one else to.

But now there _is_ and she can't fathom accepting the help that's being thrust at her.

"We're going nowhere," Jack says simply, "so accept the help or put up with tagalongs."

Lottie opens and closes her mouth a number of times, starting sentences and cutting herself off, searching for an argument that will grant her isolation once more, but from the looks on Jack and Bonny's faces, anything she says will be met with stony and determined silence. Her sigh is resigned and tired, her nod reluctant, and her eyes catch the rook once more, still perched on its post and watching her. She can feel its judgment as easily as she can see it on Jack and Bonny's faces.

"Fine," she breathes and somehow she feels like she's not just telling herself and the two Rooks, but she's telling the damned _bird_ as well. She takes a deep, steadying breath. "Where can we find an Enforcer?"

"There's a pub," Jack says, and there's the carefree grin Lottie's used to seeing. "Down by the Thames. Reckon that's as good a place as any t' start. And here – a little lad asked me to give this to ya."

From his pocket he draws a chess piece, a rook, and Lottie feels haunted by everything to do with the word. It's black and scratched and cold to the touch, sitting in Lottie's hand and no bigger than her palm.

"Ethan caught up with us," says Bonny, and she doesn't know what she's saying or how it's affecting Lottie, she can't, but when Lottie looks up and meets her eyes there's something there that makes her doubt it. They can't be oblivious to what they're doing, _they can't be_. "He wanted you to have that and said something about ' _not giving up on the Rooks_ '."

She's reminded of saving him, of fighting side by side with Jacob and the Rooks while Ethan hid in the back of the alley. He could have been killed, would have been killed if she and Jacob hadn't been there, but instead he'd smiled a toothy and cheerful grin and told her his green jacket was waiting for him.

She clenches her hand around the small piece, reminded as well of the injuries, the black eye Millie had told her Ethan had received; the piece in her hand does nothing but remind her of her anger towards Jacob, his recklessness.

She smothers it and keeps her voice surprisingly steady as she asks, "Is what I heard true? Jacob wasn't aware of the injuries?"

Jack nods once. "The last time Boss was in such a rage as all 'at, you an' he weren't talkin'."

"It was terrifying," Bonny adds. She shudders. "I've never seen Isla move so fast before – she couldn't wait to flee from him when he found out."

"Clara's lookin' out for them now, on the street," Jack says. "Right clever that one."

It's hard to remain angry at the news, hard to remain bitter towards Jacob for something he had no knowledge of. She pockets the small castle still clenched in her hand, strengthened by its presence and the knowledge that the children are _safe_ now, that Millie and Jacob have reached some sort of truce, and the urge to return to her, to _him_ , is near overwhelming.

She swallows and her eyes find the rook perched still on its post.

_Later_ , she thinks. She has to kill Lynch first, she _has_ to – it's been too long now and she's close, she can _feel_ it.

"Y'know," muses Bonny quietly, and Lottie's gloves are too big on the hand that reaches for her arm, that comforts gently and draw Lottie's eyes to the other woman's gentle face. When she smiles it reveals crooked teeth – _this ol' snaggletooth is Bonny_ , Jack had introduced that first night, but Lottie's never been close enough to see for herself, never thought to look for it – but there's a kindness in her eyes that completely detracts from it. "Mr Frye has quite the temper, but it comes and goes. If you talk to him..."

"I can't do that," Lottie says stubbornly and then, the bitterness she'd thought gone returning, "you heard him – you were there. He doesn't want me back there."

"'Course he does, lass," says Jack. He lights up another cigar and looks every bit like Lottie's father when he says, "People say stupid things when they're angry, Lottie."

She can see Jonathan Crawley's face, see his tired body slumped in the high backed chair behind his desk, his head in his hands and the weight of the world on his shoulders. They'd fought in the afternoon, something that seems so insignificant to her now, and she'd knocked hesitantly on the door in the evening, gathering her tatters of courage and biting her lip. There had been no yelling, only exhausted exhalations of apology and Lottie should have told him then and there that she wanted to help, that she wanted to start training again.

Her bottom lip trembles and her eyes sting with tears. She wipes them away hastily, turning her body away from her two companions, reminded so painfully that her father isn't here anymore, he won't be anymore; she's never going to see his face again, smell his cologne, those god awful cigars he got imported from America. She doesn't want to think about it, hasn't let herself, but now she's started she can't stop.

"Talk to him, Lottie," Bonny urges.

And the idea of losing him while he's angry with her, of leaving things like they are if something were to happen to her, is so unbearable that she nods, agreeing wordlessly.

She can see the relief on their faces, making her doubt they were ever here for themselves and not for him, but there's movement in the corner of her eye, horrifying and heart-stopping.

"Well, well," says the Blighter, swinging his sword cane and tossing his head, throwing his hair from his eyes. There's no white flag here, not anymore, and the Blighters at his back wear menacing grins and prowl forward like predators that give her pause and worry for her safety. "If it isn't lovely Miss Lottie."

At her side, Jack and Bonny are drawing weapons and Lottie's counting – four, five, six, eight, brutes and enforcers, large and skilled and they're _outnumbered_ and alone – while she reaches for her coat, thinking frantically. She has one smoke bomb left, one that she doubts will have little of the desired effect on such skilled opponents, and she wants Jack and Bonny to get out of this alive – _Martha and little Georgie_ , she thinks, _he has to get home to them_ and _god_ , doesn't she wish she had never been told because now she knows what will be lost if he dies here in the snow with her.

"Make this easy, won't you?" says the Blighter smugly, twirling his cane one final time, drawing the sword as he stops mere feet away from her. "You 'ave an appointment with Mr Lynch. Best not to keep 'im waiting."

"I'm afraid I'll have to cancel that engagement," Lottie bites back and for all the strength and confidence in her voice she feels every bit like a scared little girl, the same scared little girl she had felt the night her father was murdered.

_No white flag here_ , she thinks again, spying the satisfied grin crossing the Blighter's face.

"I so 'oped ye would say that."

She has no time to think of a plan, no time to think anything but ' _oh, shit_ ' because there's a brute swinging at her with hands the size of her thighs, grasping for her jacket with lips curled back in a wicked snarl. She ducks aside, draws her Kukri instinctively and slices at his side, desperately and fearfully, losing herself and forgetting her training for a split few seconds.

A glance over her shoulder sees Jack and Bonny deep in the fight, pistols drawn and daggers dripping with blood, and Bonny's bleeding at the mouth and Jack's shouting as he's thrown backwards by hands that grab the lapels of his coat.

Lottie's throws knives, quick and furious and desperate and _terrified_ , and the Blighter advancing on Jack falls at his feet as he scrambles away, and she watches Jack draw his pistol and shoot at the Blighter near Bonny.

"Go," Lottie gasps, grasping his arm and drawing him to his feet. She gestures to the other alley opposite, blissfully empty. "You have to _leave_."

"We're not leaving you," Bonny returns, just as breathless, parrying the sword that would have taken Lottie's head (" _We need her alive you dolt_!" she thinks she hears screamed but Jack is clutching at his shoulder and Bonny's arm and thigh are bleeding) and she's starts to form a plan, crazy and frantic.

"I'll catch you up," she says, reaching for the smoke bomb, her last. She lights and tosses it, quirks a grin she hopes seems confident.

(She's not, she's far from it, but she won't let them die, she can't let them die.)

She can hear that Blighter shouting through the smoke, can see Jack and Bonny distraught at the idea of leaving her behind, and she strikes where she can, recalling her training as well as she can with the noise in her head, the _worry_.

It starts to clear and she's still in the middle of it all, trapped amongst red and black, sure more have arrived and are arriving and seeing them at the street, seeing the carriages and the glint of light against metal. She can hear her name being shouted, so far away, and fire spreads up her back, from her hip to her shoulder, drawing a shout from her lips that equal parts surprised and pained.

She stumbles a step before she turns, swinging wildly with her Kukri and catching the Blighter in the stomach, forcing him back from her, the very same who tried to grab her before, bleeding at the side and now the front and still standing.

A punch to her shoulder from behind, still bruised from the battle in the _Bed and Bottle_ , has her stumbling again, gasping and her vision whiting for a second, and she realises now she's been lucky, _so lucky_ , to have Jacob with her, realises now that all the instances she could have been injured have been prevented by his presence. She's been lucky that her one injury was that black eye, all else that could have happened prevented by the Blighters wanting him, not her, by him having the skill and confidence to know how to fend them off.

She needs him now, she knows, because she's been pretending to be an assassin for near nine months now and she _can't do this alone_. She's a fool to think she can.

" _Lottie_!"

She can't tell who's shouted; she catches sight of brass knuckles coming towards her dazed and dizzied body, feels them against her cheekbone before she falls to one knee. A pistol is drawn next, aimed to her right, to Jack coming to her aid and Lottie's Kukri has slipped out of her hand.

She hears the shot before she registers anything else.

The freshly fallen snow is stained with red as his body falls face first and it's not right, it's _not_ , that he should fall so horribly, so soon, and she's failed him like she's failed herself and her father.

"Find the other," says the Blighter with a toss of his head and Lottie's hit again, thrown to the cold ground beneath her body and putting up little fight when she knows she should be fighting back. "So much for those rumours, eh?" he gloats with a laugh and the chuckles haunt her. "The rage of the last Crawley in London. Hah."

The snow is a relief to her burning back and her cold fingers are greeted by the warmth of Jack's blood, pooling on the cobblestones and seeping towards her, staining her clothes and her hands. The snow falls hard now and the large flakes land in her hair and eyelashes, on her lips that are parted by shallow and defeated breaths.

The rook soars over her, high over the houses and out of sight.


	26. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie's nightmares come to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture in this chapter - **seriously**. Avoid the _**Lottie**_ sections if this makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> Also - congratulations guys! You've caught up with my Wattpad readers! That just happens to mean that you'll have to wait a little longer for the next part. Please try to enjoy despite the incredibly dark nature of this chapter.

_'Life is tough, my darling, but so are you_.' - Stephanie Bennett-Henry.

* * *

The snow falls heavy and each step she takes is pained and aggravating.

She leaves a trail of blood that's easily followed and she's sluggish and exhausted and every step she takes she feels as though she's climbing a mountain. Her hands clutch at her thigh, at a wide wound from a lucky strike, and yet more blood pours down and over her hands, over her dirty boots, from the gunshot wound on her arm.

She had to leave them and she hates herself for it.

 _I have to find him_ , she tells herself because she won't let herself think about it, she _can't_ , not if she wants to survive. The voices are growing closer, the hunters closing in on their prey, and she's barely made any progress since making the brave and stupid decision to leave the safety of that inn with the barkeep who doesn't ask questions and the patrons whose silence can be bought.

Bonny isn't used to being alone, not like this.

She's been in her fair share of fights, joining the Rooks saw to it that she'd never have a boring day on the streets, but never has she felt like this. Never have the odds ever been so stacked against her and she's a fool to have thought the odds would always be with them, with the Rooks and the Frye's.

Without him they stood no chance and Bonny had seen the exact moment Lottie had realised it, had seen it in the breathless gasp – _Go, I'll catch you up_ – and the defeated slumping of her shoulders when Jack had started that last ill-fated charge.

 _I couldn't stay_ , Bonny thinks, throwing out her hand to the alley wall beside her, supporting her weight. She can't walk any further, she can't. _But I should've_.

She will never forget that moment, not for the rest of her life: Lottie on her knees, that _bastard_ hovering over her and holding that gun; Jack, desperate and terrified, shouting nonsense and charging, and his body stopping short too soon.

He's still on the ground, bleeding out, and she's running for her life, frightened and ashamed and _hunted_.

She can't run anymore. Lottie's gloves are slipping from her hands, too big and stained and sodden with Bonny's blood. She can't lift her feet from the ground anymore, she can hardly keep her eyes open, and when she starts to lower herself to the cold ground, her blood pooling on the fresh falling of snow, it's a welcome reprieve.

She leans against the wall, tiredly casting her eyes to the sky and watching the clouds passing slowly by. A rook flies overhead, out of the alley and onto the street, and the voices are closer now, cheering as they round the corner.

"Nowhere left to fly," one of them hisses, standing over her, that same damned man with the knife wound on his side from Lottie. He reaches inside his coat and Bonny watches, feeling as though the world has slowed down, as he pulls out a pistol, the same pistol he'd used to shoot down Jack without any remorse.

His grin is menacing as he lines up the shot and her breaths are shallow and her vision unfocused. There are four of them, she thinks, but she can't be sure; is she seeing double now too? They could leave her here without finishing her off, she knows, because at the rate things are going, at the way her vision darkens at the edges, she'll be dead soon anyway.

There's a shout at the mouth of the alley, a war cry, and the brute with the gun turns away from her, startled, and Bonny can see green and yellow, can hear gunshots and pained shouts, and there's red on the snow and on her jacket and on her hands and finally the odds have returned in her favour.

"Bonny," says a voice and there are hands on her cheeks, tapping lightly, and she struggles to open eyes she hadn't realised were closed. Crouching before her, all red hair that reminds her so much of Jack, is little Alfie, and he's tugging the scarf from his neck and binding the wound on her arm. "Stay awake, alright love?"

"Jack," she slurs, but Alfie's shouting over her, shouting for a carriage to be brought round, for someone to notify Miss Nightingale that they're coming. "Jack... he's..."

"Shush now, love," Alfie says as Eliza kneels at her other side, shrugging out of her jacket despite the cold and tossing it over Bonny. Hands press at her thigh and Bonny needs them to _understand_ -

"Blighters," she says.

"We know that, sweetheart," Eliza says, brushing her hair from her eyes. "Shush now."

"No," she murmurs insistently. She forces herself to the say the name, to get them to _understand_. "Lynch... Blighters."

She sees the realisation on Alfie's face, the frantic look shared between the two Rooks, and then Alfie's shouting over his shoulder, " _Boss_! _Somebody get the boss_!"

* * *

Lottie comes to her senses with a gasp; her back is on fire, fire that engulfs her senses and numbs her to all else.

It's freezing and the cold does nothing for her many pains; she can't move without aggravating the knife wound that stretches across her back and her cheek throbs with her racing pulse. Her weapons are gone, laid on a table by the door, and her coat has been draped over the back of the chair that sits there. She feels naked without them, with her hands tied over her head and her toes barely touching the ground; she's spent so long prowling London, armed and dangerous, that to be here, to have them in her sight but out of reach, is near unbearable.

There's something foul in the air, a stench that has her retching and her stomach turning, and slowly, her eyes begin to adjust. She cautiously looks around her, taking in the stone walls and the paintings, the scratches in the grey, the flag on the wall, ripped and torn and hanging from one corner.

This is the basement of her home, she realises now, and the flag is torn in half, the symbol of the Brotherhood split unequally in two by a jagged cut.

There's blood on her shirt and her hands and the once white fabric sticks to her like a second skin, held there by blood that's dry and blood that oozes from her back. She tugs at the rope wound around her wrists, every movement aggravating her wounds, every movement reminding her of them, and she's not sure what it is that forces her to momentarily give up; her failure to her friends, to herself, to her father? Or is she truly just too weak to try?

 _You're a damned fool_.

The words ring in her head, said by Millie and Jacob near a month before, and what she wouldn't give to find them now, to drop to her knees before them and beg forgiveness.

 _They were right_ , she thinks, breathing heavily, trying to find something to distract from the pain she feels. _They were right about me_.

She's been a fool, this she knows now, consumed by hatred and vengeance and too lost in them to accept help, to accept the truth from those she cares about most.

Lottie hangs her head, tears pooling in her eyes.

 _What do I do now_? She thinks with one last pained and fruitless tug at her bound wrists.

All of this, she thinks, might have been avoided if she'd realised her mistake before Jack and Bonny found her, before their fight, before Jack...

Her throat burns like her eyes as her tears begin to fall.

 _Jack_ , she thinks, _oh, Jack_.

This is all her fault she knows, her stubbornness, her anger and hate, her fire and fury, burning hot, too hot, and scalding everyone around her. She inhales on a sob, pained, recalling those last moments before she blacked out; on her knees and Jack shouting, that gun shot that she can still hear ringing in her ears, his blood that's still on her hands, literally and metaphorically.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to an empty room, to a torn flag and a jacket that was never hers, that she should have never accepted.

Her eyes linger once more on the flag, on the ripped half of fabric that dangles and hangs over the floor, over a bundle she can see in the dim light below it. She sees more fabric as she trails her eyes along it, wondering if it's blankets and trying to recall any time before where her father had thought it necessary to move them.

But as her eyes trail further up, she sees grey and sunken skin and dark hair that she used to envy.

A choked sob leaves her throat and her tears fall heavier, angrier, sadder, because these are just more people she has failed.

Sarah's body is a crumpled heap on the floor and there's a larger body thrown over the top, as if to protect her, and Lottie's retching and sobbing and unable to get a hold of herself. How long ago was she here, how long ago was it that she thought she could see lights in this house, that she thought she saw people? How long ago was it that she was _in_ this house, in this place she once called her home, walking through those halls and standing on the ruined carpets with Evie Frye?

How long was she mourning her lost life, while those she was closest to rotted away beneath her feet?

There's another body, another she recognises, another she's failed, and she sees the large shirt with the many stains; John, slumped against the wall, the shirt stained red at the neck and down the chest.

Noah, lying atop Sarah, protecting her to the very end, and John, isolated but never alone, the silent foundation of their family.

 _Father would have protected them_ , Lottie thinks, _father would have come back._

What has she been doing all this time? How long have they been down here? How long have their bodies been rotting away while she played hero with the Frye's and the assassins and the Rooks? How long has it been since she thought about them at all, too busy pretending that she was capable, that she could kill Lynch alone?

She closes her eyes but she can't get away, all the training in the world could never prepare her for this hurt, for this _pain_ , and she says his name under her breath, like a mantra, a wish that it might distract her from the mistakes she's made that have led her here.

 _Jacob. I'm so sorry_.

If she'd only been a couple of minutes quicker in making her decision, if she hadn't been so damned stubborn, she and Jack and Bonny could have gotten out of that park and away; those couple of minutes could have spared Jack, could have saved Bonny.

 _I'm sorry_ , she thinks, because they're dead, they must be, just two more people she called friend who she's failed, who have lost their lives because of her. _I'm sorry_.

But she can say the words as often as she likes, it does nothing to alleviate the blame or turn back time. This is her fault, and there's nothing anyone can do to change that.

She lifts her head at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, getting louder and heavier with each step, and she forces her tears to subside, hates that she looks weak to whoever is about to walk through that door. She grinds her teeth together, ignores her bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks, and she watches the door with daggers in her eyes and a broken heart.

He swaggers into the basement and greets her with an uncaring smile and a wicked look Lottie recognises from her nightmares.

Her breath catches in her throat; of all the ways she's imagined seeing him again, this is not one of them. This is not what she wanted. She wanted to stand over him, wanted him beaten and powerless while she finally reaped the rewards of her efforts with the assassins. She wanted to hold her Kukri blade in her hand and slit his throat. She wanted to watch the life drain from his eyes and finally, _finally_ , have peace.

She realises now that it was a pipe dream.

"Good evening, Miss Crawley," says Victor Lynch, and if things were different, if her back wasn't burning and her cheek wasn't throbbing, if she wasn't in pain and preparing for the worst, she'd think he sounds diplomatic.

She grits her teeth and remains silent.

"Come now," he continues. He bypasses the bodies on the floor and draws out the chair from the table in the corner. Lottie's eyes flit over its surface; her throwing knives are laid neatly, side by side, and beside them are her hallucinogenic darts, the last three. Her gauntlet rests on the table behind them, in sight but out of reach.

Her heart skips a beat.

Lynch sits, his posture poised and perfect, a reflection of his wealthy upbringing, and Lottie wants to strangle him, wants to scream at him to stop. He holds one of her throwing knives in his hand, studies it this way and that, and she hates him – those were her _mother_ 's, he doesn't get to touch them, to taint them. He has tainted enough of her life already.

"I really had hoped it wouldn't come to this," he says. "It seems your father was the more reasonable in your family."

"And you killed him for it," she snarls through clenched teeth.

Lynch shrugs, and his expression turns embarrassed. "Ah, yes," he says. "Regrettable but necessary."

"Necessary," Lottie echoes with a scoff that's weaker than she intends.

"Yes," agrees Lynch, far too quickly, far too earnestly. "You did receive my message, didn't you? I was informed you had."

"I did," she hisses. She remembers that conversation as clearly as she feels her pain, remembers the burning hot betrayal she'd felt, the pulsing anger at the lies that she realises now were never intended.

 _You're a bloody fool_ , Jacob and Millie say again, and Lottie can only agree.

 _Yes_ , she thinks, _I am a fool_.

"Good," says Lynch, with a pleasant smile that has goose bumps rising on Lottie's flesh. "Then we can move on from this misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding," Lottie repeats disbelievingly. "You murdered my father!"

"I so thought we had moved on from that." His expression darkens. "I shall make myself perfectly clear."

He moves quickly, so quickly that even with her assassin training Lottie could not prepare herself for this. His throw is sloppy, untrained like Lottie had been months ago, before she'd realised that the only way to use those knives is to train, but it doesn't matter.

The knife whizzes through the air, silent and deadly like Lottie's used to, and she's so stunned when the knife embeds itself in her shoulder, still bruised and still throbbing, that she forgets to breathe for the pain.

If his throw had been any worse, it might have been her arm, she thinks, or worse, her neck.

She remembers how to breathe again, finally, only to find herself screaming in agony, vision flashing white and her skin feeling red hot, as Lynch reaches forward and grasps the hilt of the knife.

He twists.

"We shall make this simple, Miss Crawley," he says. "You are to leave London immediately and you are not to return. Our dealings are finished."

 _They are not_ , she wants to say defiantly, _they are not finished until you lie dead at my feet_. But she cannot say anything past her heaving and gasping breaths, past the burning of tears at her eyes.

She hopes the daggers in her eyes say it for her.

"You don't seem to realise," Lynch says, and if she's not mistaken he sounds thoughtful, "the problems that have arisen because of you."

There are plenty problems that have arisen because of her, she thinks, because of her alliance with the assassins, because of her missions with Jacob and Evie and Henry, because of her friendships with them. He needs to be more specific.

"I have fallen far from the standing to which I am accustomed," he says furiously, and finally Lottie sees past his calm and pensive demeanour, to the murderer, to the _monster_ who stormed her home and ruined her life. "The only way to fix it is to remove you from the equation."

She's a problem to be solved, she thinks, a variable to be removed.

 _I will not be removed_.

"So what do you say, Miss Crawley, hm?" He pauses and Lottie's nose wrinkles at his closeness, at his foul breath that ghosts over her mouth and nose. "Do we have an accord?"

Lottie's chest is heaving; she's struggling to breathe. If the pain she'd felt before was bad, if her burning back and throbbing cheek caused her any sort of discomfort, they are nothing compared to what she feels now. Lynch's fingers dance along the hilt of the throwing knife, jolting it, nudging it, and her breath hitches with every taunt.

She inhales shakily.

"Go to hell." 

* * *

 

Kenny knows it's going to be a long night.

The screams from the basement are one thing – angry curses that had quickly changed into pained shrieking – but Robbie's drinking games are another. The Blighters around him are insensitive, he thinks, childlike.

"What d'ye say, mate," crows Robbie, pressing a beer into his hands and tossing his head, clearing the hair from his eyes. Kenny wishes the bell-end would just get it cut. "If the next scream lasts five seconds or more, take a drink, eh?"

Kenny has never hated Robbie more than now.

He takes the beer and pointedly sets it on the table next to him as soon as the Enforcer turns his back.

He takes no joy in being with the Blighters – it keeps his family in the lifestyle they have become accustomed – but he'd joined only because they were winning. Now the odds have turned against them, have turned in the favour of the Rooks, and if Kenny wasn't so bloody terrified of Victor Lynch, he'd have turned to the green a long time ago.

"Kenny," Emma mutters and when he glances down at the small woman (but then everyone's smaller than him, he reflects) he sees the discomfort plain as day on her face.

He grasps her arm and guides her to the door, past the paintings lying dirtied and ruined on the floor, past the lounge with the strange blade on the mantelpiece, past the Blighters drinking and cheering and getting drunk on ale and victory.

"So much of the rage of lovely Lottie Crawley!" cries Robbie and Kenny slams the door behind him.

"It's disgusting," Emma murmurs, shaking her head, shooting the closed door a venomous look.

Kenny rubs his hands together in the cold air and turns his eyes towards the sky, towards the sky full of stars. It's too clear a night for this, he thinks, shouldn't it be thundery, raining, something to reflect the torment of the beautiful and deadly woman who suffers below their feet?

"You didn't think 'at when she was brought here," Kenny says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a cigar. He offers her one, lights it for her, and they smoke in silence for a couple of minutes.

"I thought she was smart," Emma says, agitated. "I thought the Crawley's were _supposed_ to be smart." Her words turn bitter. "Wealthy family, good education and all that."

Kenny shrugs. "People do stupid things when they're angry." He exhales slowly, watching the smoke disappear before his eyes. "Lynch is a good example of 'at."

It's no secret that the Crawley woman had Lynch running scared. She'd teamed up the Frye's, with the Rooks, and if left alone Kenny doesn't doubt that he'd be wearing the green already.

(Or dead, but he likes to be an optimist.)

 _She was supposed to leave London_ , Kenny remembers Lynch thundering months ago, when gang leaders were falling left right and centre and Charlotte Crawley was popping up everywhere. _She was supposed to disappear_.

Starrick had been furious, he remembers, and Mr Roth had sent word that Lynch was on his own until she was dealt with.

 _The Crawley's were a force to be reckoned with, back in their day_ , Kenny remembers being told, but that was a long time ago, before the Blighters and the Templars, when the hold of the assassins was firm and near unbreakable.

 _Everything breaks_ , Kenny thinks, _eventually_.

Emma crushes her cigar under her boot, shuffles on her feet in the chilly air. A carriage pulls up in front of the house and Kenny nods his silent greeting to the driver, eyeing the contents on the back of the wagon with uncertainty.

Emma's face pales.

"Is that...?"

Kenny nods wordlessly and adjusts his position as his fellow Blighters lumber past, bodies dangling between them, and at Emma's sharp intake of breath, he encourages her to look away. He catches sight of bright red hair and a green jacket, a scraggly and unkempt beard.

 _Despicable_ , he thinks, _to disrespect the dead so_.

"What is that bastard up to now?" Emma whispers, and she looks nauseous and green like the ruined jacket on that body.

"Nothin' good," he mutters. Kenny grinds his teeth together and with a light shove to Emma, he asks in a low voice, "Where's the nearest Rook stronghold?"

She bites her lips as she thinks, reaching into her jacket pockets for her gloves. They're covered in holes and blood and they don't keep her hands warm, they never have, but still she wears them. He pulls himself into the driving seat.

Finally, she says, clambering onto the carriage beside him, "Blue Anchor Alley."

Kenny nods once and gathers the reins in his hands.

The Blighters are losing and Kenny likes to be on the winning side in his battles.

* * *

Her throat burns like her flesh, and it's all she can smell.

Lynch has abandoned his jacket, standing before her in a white shirt and a black waistcoat and all Lottie can see is her blood, stained upon his sleeves and his hands. He doesn't seem fazed in the slightest that her blood is on his forehead when he reaches up to run it through his hair, to brush it back from his face.

There are bottles lined up on the table, innocently sitting behind her throwing knives and darts and her gauntlet and she hates that she'd forgotten than about him, that it's the reason he's so feared at all; he _experiments_.

Lottie's breaths are gasping sobs and she feels so weak now, helpless, and what she wouldn't give to turn back time and change it all. What she wouldn't give to turn back time to that night, to insist that Sarah and John and Noah come with her, that someone comes with her because just saving one of them is better than saving none of them at all.

What she wouldn't give to go back to that morning after, to change her mind about the assassins. What she wouldn't give to have forced herself to get the first train out of London.

 _I was born in Crawley but that's by the by_ , she hears Jacob Frye saying distantly.

Why did she have to find the assassins in London? Why didn't she catch that train to Crawley? If she wanted to be an assassin so badly, she could have done it there, safe, far away from the monster before her.

 _I didn't want to be an assassin_ , Lottie remembers, and doesn't it seem so obvious why now. _I wanted to be ordinary, ordinary Lottie Crawley in her dresses and her teas_.

The slight shift of her body reignites her various pains; the throwing knife in her bruised shoulder, her throbbing cheek, the knife wound that stretches down her back, the throwing knife buried in her thigh, the chemical burns marring her stomach and chest.

What a failure she has become.

 _I should have left London long ago_.

"Sir," says a voice at the door, "we have it."

She's so tired, struggling to keep her eyes open and finding that she doesn't care enough anymore to be wary of whatever Lynch is bringing in now.

"Excellent," says Lynch. "Bring it in." He turns on the spot and Lottie hasn't the energy to flinch which his deceivingly gentle hands caress her bruised cheek. She closes her eyes, wishes she could be somewhere, anywhere but here, and imagines the touch that ghosts over her face isn't this monster, but someone else.

 _Jacob_ , Lottie thinks, _I stayed for him_.

She was caught up in him, thrilled by him, and she misses him. He was protecting her, helping her, and wasn't she a fool – _you're a bloody fool, Charlotte Crawley_ – to scorn him when they needed each other most.

 _I would have never met him,_ Lottie thinks _, if I'd left. I would have never met him or Evie or Henry or Jack or Bonny_.

She's not sure if that's a good thing.

Lynch's touch turns evil and Lottie's scream is ragged and wrenching; her blood warms her cold skin, spilling down her chest and over her burns, over her various cuts and scars, and Lynch drops the blood soaked knife to floor.

The clattering of metal on the concrete is deafening.

"You should have left London, dear Lottie," he says, and _no_ , she thinks _, you can't take that from me too, not that name_. "But I have so enjoyed myself. Your presence has been very _enlightening_."

He clicks his fingers at the Blighters who have stumbled into the room, and Lottie watches sluggishly as they remove his vast array of chemicals.

"I must thank you, my dear," he says, "I do believe you have helped me redeem myself." He catches one of the Blighters by the arm on his way out. "Send word to Starrick. The last Crawley is dead."

Those words remind Lottie of who she is dealing with; she was never leaving this basement, she thinks, not if Starrick wants her dead, not when Lynch hates her as much as she hates him.

He circles her, returning to the table and Lottie eyes the wrapped bundle there, brought in only moments ago by his Blighters, watches him tiredly as he unwraps it and strides towards her. She recognises the weapon, dread pooling in her gut, and it's just something else he has taken from her.

"I have brought you more company," he says cheerfully, gesturing with the Kukri, _her_ Kukri, with the ivory wolf's head and the black veins, towards the bodies Lottie hadn't seen being brought in.

She sees green first, the red stain and the unkempt beard and she's almost thankful for the distraction when Lynch plunges her Kukri into her stomach. She starts to wonder, deliriously, if this is how her targets feel, as Lynch takes a step back. His grin isn't wicked or malicious; he's still thoughtful and studious, and Lottie remembers her father's teachings somehow – _the blade has to stay in her body, blood loss will be lessened then_.

But she's already bleeding from multiple places, she thinks, and even if Lynch leaves that blade there, _her_ blade, and she's not sure if that's irony or a sick joke played by this monster, she knows she doesn't have long.

 _I have failed again_ , she thinks, and her eyes find Jack's body again, slumped over by the wall, his hand, lifeless and immobile, resting on the stained skirts of Sarah's dress.

Lottie drops her head, defeated.

"Sir," she hears a voice say frantically, but the words sound far away, "upstairs!"

"What is it?" snaps Victor Lynch, and she can still hear the glee in his voice, the victory.

"The Rooks," says the voice and Lottie's cold fingers twitch. "They've found us."

"Frye is here!" shouts another voice and everything said after is a blur of words, shouts and yells, and Lottie doesn't care anymore, not when her failures lie so plain before her eyes.

 _It's fitting_ , she thinks, and she can be as morbid as she likes because she's sure her death is on the horizon, _that she should die here, surrounded by those she's cared about._

They'll be waiting for her, she imagines, and through her hair she eyes seek out Jack once more, her friend, her drinking buddy, he whose family he has left behind because of her. It's fitting that she should die too, because how can she face his family, how can she face Bonny?

But her eyes find a different pair of feet, different and familiar shoes, dirtied by mud and dust and blood, and if Lottie was cold before now she's freezing, terrified and screaming her woes until all she can do is whimper.

Because beside Jack, the skin of his face collapsing but the bullet hole between his eyes still plain and familiar, is Jonathan Crawley.


	27. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie sees the end, and Jacob mounts a rescue mission.

There are two Blighters on the ground below them, shedding their red coats and accepting the green, and the words they had brought with them only confirm what he has suspected for hours now.

_Victor Lynch will die tonight_ , thinks Jacob Frye, _and it will be in the most painful way I can possibly achieve_.

Evie stands at his side, and for the first time in months Jacob thinks they must seem a united front. They aren't, they're far from it; she's still angry with him, still angry with the ' _messes_ ' he's created that she's dutifully cleaned up for him, and he's angry with her, angry that she might've been content to leave him to deal with this alone. One of their own is in peril, one of their _own_ needs them and she could hardly pull herself away from the myths she's chasing.

_Never allow personal feelings to compromise the mission_ , he hears, but the voices are his father and his sister, and can't they see that they're wrong?

"If she's in the basement," considers Evie, casting her eyes towards the Crawley household, and Jacob knows she can see the multitude of guards that stalk its halls like he can, with the vision they've honed from birth, the vision that has blessed their family. He knows she can see the guards in the lounge that drink and celebrate. "Then we need to consider all of our options carefully."

He knows she can see the body below them, hanging by the wrists and looking unbearably _dead_.

_No_ , he thinks, _she's alive_.

They had arrived just in time to see Lynch thrust that blade into her stomach, after all, and Jacob is still furious with Evie for stopping him from barging in there right when it happened.

_Lynch has to die_ and for the first time, Jacob understands why Lottie had been so fixated on that goal.

"You know she's in the basement," he growls, because there's no way she doesn't. "What are we waiting for?"

The Rooks are on the street below them, casting their glances up anxiously, eager to start a fight, eager to get revenge for a fallen comrade whose body they have yet to recover, whose body was _stolen_ from them. Jacob understands their feelings completely, understands the sentiment, and he wants to act before he's burying two bodies instead of one.

"We can't just barge in there," Evie says, and she's unsurprisingly patient in the face of his reckless rage, "it might put Lottie in even more jeopardy."

She's surprising calm, Jacob thinks, considering the bomb he'd dropped on her when he'd – reluctantly – sought her out. They work better as a team, even he understands that, and even he can recognise that Lottie's life is at stake. Even Jacob can recognise that choosing to act alone might only make things worse.

Lottie is part of their team, part of their Brotherhood, and Evie would not forgive him for charging in there with the Rooks on hand and coming out again with another dead ally.

_My daughter,_ Jacob remembers Jonathan Crawley saying, because it's all he's been able to think about since that argument, fragments of a conversation he had paid little attention to piecing themselves together whenever things have gone quiet, _has little interest in this war. I fear the war has an interest in her_.

_The Crawley's endure_ , Henry had told him, shortly after Crawley had departed, like the words were something he ought to _know_ , something _important_.

Hours later Jonathan Crawley was dead and Charlotte Crawley was missing. The next morning there was a beautiful blonde on their train, with fire in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. The interest had been mutual, of that Jacob is sure, but everything that happened afterwards he's also sure was unexpected for them both.

_The rage of Lottie Crawley_ , Jacob hears crowed again, a mocking chant accompanied by shots of alcohol and grating laughter.

They can mock her rage, he thinks, but soon they will experience his.

"Enough of this," he snarls, his patience wearing thin. Evie says his name, frustrated and stern, so like their father, still trying to replace him when there's no use, and he descends from the roof quicker than he thinks he ever has.

"Rooks," he calls, landing on both feet, removing his top hat and drawing his hood, "with _me_." 

* * *

She's going to die.

Lottie's not sure when she finally understood that, when she stopped being so scared of the numbness crawling along her skin, or the chill in the basement.

Perhaps, she thinks, it was when her father's body was dragged and dumped before her, or when Jack's bloodied hand fell on Sarah's dirtied and torn skirts. Perhaps it was when her eyes first landed on her father's face, when her eyes met those of the man who cared for and trained her, who loved her so unconditionally in the only way a parent can.

Not for the first time, she hates that she didn't join the fight when she had the chance, that she might have been able to save him, save them all.

_This is my fault_ , she thinks tiredly, blankly, because hanging here, bleeding out and with her own weapons used against her, she can't even draw the strength to _feel_ the sadness she knows she should be.

There's something happening, she thinks, some disturbance that's a blessing and a curse, because it's removed Lynch but has left her alone. She has nothing to focus on now, nothing to draw her back when her thoughts grow too dark, nothing to stop her from deciding that she's had enough, nothing to remind her why she's fighting in the first place.

What's the point, after all? What has she achieved in a year that's worth anything at all?

She's alone and anyone who allied with her, who supported her, lies dead in this room, everyone she's ever loved in some way or another.

_Not everyone_ , she thinks, but it doesn't sound like her voice, it doesn't sound weak and defeated like she is. This voice is strong and determined and a voice that has haunted her thoughts during all her questionable decisions. _The Frye's are still alive_.

But why would they help her now? Why would Jacob help her now, after the bitter words thrown between them? Why would Evie, when she probably doesn't even know she's gone? When she probably thinks it's because of something Jacob did, the straw that broke the camel's back, when she probably thinks Lottie is far away from London by now?

Jacob and Evie have been poles apart for months now and she is not important enough to bring them together, not even for a night.

(Or is it morning, she thinks, because she's really not sure how long she's been down here for.)

_The Crawley's endure_ , her father used to tell her in her darkest moments. _Crawley's find a way forward, always_.

_But not me_ , she thinks, _I can't find a way forward from this_.

Noah, Sarah, John, Jack – all of them dead because of _her_ , all of them dead because of her inaction. What did she do to help her old friends after that night? What did she do to help them when part of her _knew_ that leaving them behind would do them no good?

_Run, miss_! Sarah had said, her final words before that hidden door had separated them forever.

Lottie should have grabbed her hand and taken her too, because saving her would mean she had _tried_ , even if she'd only saved one.

Lottie's blurry vision drifts wearily to Jack, to his slumped body and the blood on his chest. Her thoughts shift to his family, to Martha who she's never met, to his children and the unborn baby, and what are they going to do now without the breadwinner of their house?

_This is my fault_ , she thinks again, because she's tired and it's not a lie. _I should have left London long ago_.

It wouldn't have helped, this she knows. It would have made her a coward, would have brought shame to her family, but perhaps it's better to be a coward than dead.

Perhaps if she'd been a coward she wouldn't be suffering now.

She can hear gunshots, the sounds recognisable to her, even as numb and cold as she is, but she doesn't dare hope. Victor Lynch has a well-earned reputation, this Lottie knows now more than anyone, and she wouldn't put it past him to take out his rage on his Blighters, to instil terror in them to force their obedience.

_You're a bloody fool_ , she thinks, but this time the voice is her own, bitter and resigned, an acceptance of the same words that have been thrown at her by her closest friend and by her closest ally.

But they're more than allies, aren't they, she thinks, but she's not so sure anymore.

Were they ever more than allies? Was there something else there other than attraction, other than mutual interest?

She'll never know, she realises, because the likelihood of her _closest ally_ finding her before the night, _morning_ , whatever time of day it is, is over are growing slimmer by the minute.

_The Crawley's endure_ , she hears again, from the darkest corner of her mind, from that same voice. It's encouraging, so different from what she's used to hearing from it. It's different from the disappointed rumble she's used to hearing and she doesn't imagine the scowl to match this time.

This time there's a sympathetic look crossing her father's face, an encouraging smile and hands on her face, gentle and unlike the touch that had come with Lynch's clawed fingers. This time, he's exactly like she remembers from her childhood, before the Brotherhood, before her training, in the aftermath of her mother's death when it was just the two of them against the world. Just the two of them, she knows now, staying afloat while the assassins in London were wiped out and cast out of the most powerful city in the world.

_The Crawley's endure_ , says her father, and the words are familiar and comforting and a reminder. _We always endure_.

He'd be proud of her, she wants to think, he'd be proud of what she's accomplished, even is her vengeance has slipped from her fingers, even if the rage that's kept her fighting has left her for now. He'd be proud of her even after her slip-ups, even after her alliances with a man who wants to kill his targets and free London. He'd be proud of her for helping Millie, for helping the children, for helping Evie and Henry, for learning from her mistakes.

He'd be proud of her in spite of her anger, in spite of her goal of vengeance for him.

_I'll see you soon_ , she thinks, because she's tired of fighting and she's tired of being alone.

The door opens, thrown so hard it slams against the wall, and she doesn't even have the strength to flinch, not like she might have before, when Lynch had first begun and Lottie had no idea what was coming her way. Now she's accepted that she's one mere step away from the end, and whatever he does to her now will push her closer to everyone's she's lost, one step closer to seeing her father again, to seeing her mother and Jack and Noah and John and Sarah.

The hands that brush her hair from her face are tender, gentler than she's expecting against the bruising on her cheek and her burst lip. She hears a hissing inhale and heels on concrete, and she manages to open her sluggish eyes and roll them to the face in front of her.

"Christ," Jacob Frye murmurs, and hope long abandoned flares to life in her chest because _here he is_. "What has that bastard done to you?"

His face and neck are splattered with blood and his hands are warm, exploring clinically and carefully, nudging the wound by her shoulder unintentionally and causing her breath to hitch.

"Don't touch the blades," Evie warns over his shoulder, and there's a horrified look on her face that tells Lottie all she needs to know about her state. She approaches slowly and Lottie hates that she flinches at the drawing of the other assassin's hidden blade.

"Evie," Jacob says, thrown over his shoulder with narrowed eyes.

"You have to support her," says his sister, and she looks troubled. "I'm going to cut her down."

He gives a curt nod and when his hands cradle her back, Lottie remembers suddenly the knife wound there, the slash from her hip to her shoulder, and her pained cry makes both the assassins freeze.

She wants to tell them to get on with it, that she's stronger than this, but the reality is that she doesn't feel strong at all.

There's some hushed muttering between the twins and Lottie thinks she must black out because next she knows she's on the ground, her cold hands resting on even colder concrete and her body supported by Jacob's strong arms.

He has his back to the bodies, Lottie notes tiredly, but Evie has found them. Lottie sees the exact moment Evie realises she's looking at Jonathan Crawley, sees the horror and disgust, the slackening of her expression as she turns sympathetic eyes towards where Lottie lies broken and defeated in Jacob's arms.

"Jacob," Evie says softly.

Jacob looks over his shoulder and Lottie sees his jaw clench, sees as he grinds his teeth together.

"Is that...?"

Evie nods once.

"I'm going to kill him," Jacob growls and his arms around her tighten a fraction, mindful even in his rage of her shoulder and her back.

Lottie doesn't have the strength to argue with him, nor does she want to.


	28. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie recovers.

In the days that follow, Lottie thinks it would have been better if she'd died in that basement.

Lynch's words and laugh follows her in her dreams, until she wakes screaming and thrashing, reopening her wounds and unable to calm herself until her pain is too obvious to ignore.

The nurse scolds gently as she sees to her but Lottie's sleep is always restless and she's always exhausted, and any words said to her never reach her ears. Her wounds are covered in white bandages, too white, too pure, everything Lottie isn't, and she takes some morbid comfort in seeing dots of red that seep through after rough nights, at seeing even just a speck of red against white, something to distract.

She's cracking and falling to pieces and she's never felt more alone.

Part of her feels trapped, the strong part, the stubborn fighter who told Lynch to go to hell when he'd stabbed her, the woman who'd boldly walked into a Blighter Stronghold. She's gone, buried beneath wounds and burns, suffocated, and in her place is a shell of a woman who can't think of anything but her suffering and self-loathing.

 _I should have left_ , she thinks again, _I should have saved them. Father would have saved them_.

 _We endure_ , she remembers her father telling her, but he couldn't have, not so soon, not so recent, because he's been dead for nearly a year, _we always endure_.

Lottie doesn't want to endure, not anymore.

She rubs at her wrists, at the bandages that hide her rope burns, and the pain is a distraction that she shouldn't be using. It's snowing again, large flakes that fall heavily past the window, and no one has told her where she is.

It's no hospital, of this she is certain, because there's too much colour: the carpet is a deep plum and brand new, with none of the questionable stains that littered the carpet of her train car; the curtains are cream and long, and she had no curtains at all on the train; the bed is too nice, too big, with a thick and cosy duvet the same shade of cream as the curtains.

The room is too big, too everything, and she hates it all.

She forces herself to sit up despite the pain that ricochets through her body at the action, wanting to feel something other than numb, wanting to feel the pain that she deserves.

 _They're dead because of you_ , hisses a nasty voice in the back of her head, one that sounds like herself and like Lynch. _You did this_.

Her father, Jack and Noah and Sarah and John, all of them dead because of her.

She wants to get to the window, to see the snow falling for herself, and to imagine that she's somewhere else, anywhere else. Lottie wishes more than anything that that anywhere else was Crawley, where Jacob was born and where the Brotherhood outside London is established. It's where she should have gone in the first place, where she should have fled instead of seeking out Henry Green.

How different things might have been, how different she might have been.

The bed is higher up from the floor than what she's grown used to over the last months and just when she gets her feet under her she loses what little strength she has and crumbles to the floor. Her thigh is bleeding again and her hand grasps the sheets overhead and she kneels on the floor, breathing through the pain, feeling it through every fibre of her being.

She can't ignore it, throbbing with her pulse, and Lynch cackles in her head, taunting; _So weak, dear Lottie. No wonder you couldn't save them._

Her vision blurs with her tears and red seeps through the white as her shoulders wrack with sobs. They're loud and pitiful and the door swings open as someone says her name, rushed and frantic.

Jacob rounds the bed and sees her there, bleeding and looking, she imagines, more pathetic than when he found her in that basement. He crouches at her side and gathers her in his arms, mindful of the arm that's in a sling, of her wounded shoulder, of the fact that she's cracking and will no doubt fall to pieces at any second.

She's helped back into bed and Jacob slides under the covers after her, holding her close like he's afraid to let her go again, and when she wakes from another restless sleep, he's still there.

* * *

"I'm sorry," she says quietly one morning, when Evie settles in the chair beside her bed. At the other woman's stunned silence, Lottie adds reluctantly, shamefacedly, "I should have told you."

Evie's expression softens. "Lottie," she starts, "it wasn't my secret to know."

"It would have avoided so much," Lottie insists, because she can't let Evie leave this room without accepting her apology. "I should have been honest about my intentions from the start..."

She picks at the bandages around her wrist again, looking for a distraction, some pain, while Evie's keen eyes watch her closely. She hates it, hates her shame and guilt, hates herself.

 _None of this should have happened_ , she thinks, _none of this would have if I'd been honest from the beginning._

She's had time to stew, after all; if she'd been honest in the beginning, perhaps the Frye's could have worked together with her, and Noah and Sarah and John would be alive. Perhaps she could have gone home long ago, with them, and they would have realised that the Blighters had eyes on the building, that they were waiting for the moment to move in.

Evie's hand rests atop Lottie's stilling her fingers where they pick at white linen.

Softly, she says, "I accept your apology," but part of Lottie knows that the words are said only to satisfy her, to help her alleviate some of the blame she's piling atop herself in droves.

She nods gently anyway, gratefully, and her hands are still picking at the bandages when Evie turns away, reaching for something at her feet. She sets it gently on the covers in front of her, a bundle wrapped in black cloth, and unwraps it slowly.

Lottie sees leather first, familiar and not, and her breath catches when Evie unrolls it.

Throwing knives, the metal darker than those Lottie has become familiar with, and the leather – now that she's looking closer, reaching for it with a hand that shakes – lighter. She turns her awed and questioning and wary gaze towards Evie Frye, biting her lip unsurely.

"I..." Evie hesitates. After a few moments, she tries, "I thought that you might appreciate..."

Even if she can't get the words out, Lottie knows what she's getting at. Lottie's old throwing knives had been so cruelly used against her, left behind in the basement of her old home after her rescue.

Truthfully, Lottie hasn't even thought about receiving new weapons, hasn't even cared enough to think about re-joining this fight she wanted no part of in the first place. Joining the fight only made things worse for her, seeking out the assassins only furthered the wrath of he who she wished to kill. Joining the assassins made her suffer.

It is the way of an assassin, she hears her father saying, and the words echo from long ago, from a night spent crying after she lost her mother. We suffer so that others do not.

I do not want this, Lottie thinks, I do not want to suffer anymore.

"Thank you," she tells Evie insincerely, because she appreciates the other assassin trying to help.

The throwing knives sit on top of the dresser beside her gauntlet and Lottie's sure that she might never touch either of them again.

* * *

"Martha lost her baby," Bonny admits one morning, a week after their reunion, after lies so blatant Lottie had always known something was being kept from her.

Her heart drops to her stomach and bile rises in her throat.

"Oh," she breathes because what else can she say to that? She wants to take back her words, want to stop herself from demanding the truth from the other woman.

There are bandages on Bonny's hands and her leg bounces where she sits. There's a fresh coating of snow outside, a dusting over the leaves of the bush below the window, and Lottie recognises this place now that she knows where she is; one of her father's safe houses, gifted to the assassin's upon his death.

 _Miss Frye discovered it_ , Bonny told her, two days prior. _In one of the journals_.

Another thing I should have known about, Lottie had thought, still does.

 _They don't need you, dear Lottie_ , hisses Victor Lynch, from the darkest corner of her mind. _They would have found this place without you._

Thick and fluffy clouds of white float across the clear blue sky and a robin settles on the stone ledge at the bottom of the garden. Rooks loiter at the gate, shuffling on their feet as their breath mists the air before them.

Lottie's not sure who they're guarding; her or Bonny?

"The grief was too much," Bonny adds quietly.

Lottie swallows, and fights the tears stinging at her eyes. I don't want to cry anymore, not anymore.

"What was it?"

"A little boy. John George." She pauses. "After his father."

Lottie picks at the bandages on her wrist again and avoids Bonny's eyes.

* * *

"Christ, Lottie," Jacob greets, and he reaches over her to close the window she's spent all morning getting open. "You'll get a chill if you sit with that open."

 _It doesn't matter_ , she wants to say. _None of it matters_.

All of it is her fault, she's realised, all of it; her father's death, Jack's death, little John George. Martha's grief is because of her – she got Jack killed, she ripped him away from his family, she ruined them.

"Your hands are like ice," Jacob comments and Lottie hardly feels his touch, hardly feels anything as he helps her back to bed. He says her name, once, twice, and his fingers brush her dirty, stringy hair from her eyes. It seems darker, she thinks, a darker blonde that she remembers, different.

But then everything is different now, isn't it, she thinks.

"Lottie," Jacob tries again. He opens his mouth, considers, and says nothing.

 _Lottie_ , Lynch whispers. _Lovely, dear Lottie_.

 _My fault_ , she thinks.

"What can I do?" Jacob asks eventually, hopelessly.

Lottie thinks that her hazel eyes are probably darker now too, that everything about her is darker, tainted, because when she fixes her eyes on Jacob, he seems to recoil slightly.

"Leave me alone," she mutters.

He goes.

The door shutting behind him does not comfort her.

* * *

"Charlotte Annabelle Crawley, you get out of that bed right now."

Lottie's heart skips a beat and her stomach churns. Wide-eyed and caught off guard, her head snaps in the direction of the voice, to Millie in the doorway with her arms across her chest and a stern glower on her face.

"You know better than this," says the older woman. "You know better than to mope and feel sorry for yourself. Shame on you."

Lottie gapes at her, confused and utterly terrified, and unsure of how to react now. Millie's patience wears thin.

"Out!" she snaps, striding into the room and throwing back the blankets. "Up with you, young lady!"

Lottie feels like a child again, being scolded by her father for sleeping in before training. He'd be pleased with this turn of events, she thinks, because he was always the same; tossing her from the comfort of her mattress and duvet and telling her that there was work to be done.

"Millie," Lottie tries, because she can't get out of bed as fast as the woman wants her to. "Millie –"

"I'll hear no more excuses," says her friend. "You've let yourself waste away for too long."

"Two weeks," Lottie says, "that's hardly a lifetime –"

"If you had your way, I'm sure it would be."

Lottie can't argue with that.

She's still reeling from the other woman's presence as she slowly pulls herself from the bed, recalling the angry words thrown between them, the blame piled on Lottie's shoulders, and if she wasn't so preoccupied with making sure Millie doesn't start yelling again, Lottie would be confused about her presence in her room.

The older woman immediately starts stripping the bed, pulling aside sheets and tossing them to the floor at the door. Lottie hovers by the open window, feeling the chill across her back, and feeling every bit like a spare part in her own, sacred space. She's gotten used to this room, after all, gotten used to seeing the inside of it, and she's been left alone ever since Jacob found her by the window a couple of days ago.

Understanding dawns.

"When did he see you?" Lottie braves asking, hugging her arms close to herself. She keeps her eyes on the floor because Millie more than anyone knows the Crawley motto, knows the struggles that have ailed her family over generations. Millie, more than anyone in London, will know that Lottie can pull through this.

But Lottie's not sure if she wants to.

"Yesterday morning," Millie admits, throwing aside a used pillowcase. She strides to Lottie's wardrobe, and pulls out a fresh shirt and trousers. "Put these on."

"I'm not a child," Lottie snaps, rolling her eyes. A stern look from Millie has her accepting the proffered clothes.

"You are acting like one," returns Millie, her waspish tone matching Lottie's, "so you will be treated like one."

Lottie slides one foot carefully into the fabric and then the other, slow and careful.

"I think I have the right to be," she says, irritated, and then, without really thinking through the self-inflicting consequences of her words, "let's visit Victor Lynch, shall we? You let yourself suffer like I did and then we'll see how you feel."

She stills with her hands still on the loose trousers, the waistband hovering over her hips and by the dresser, reaching into the bag at her side and setting something on top, Millie freezes. Lottie sighs; her hands are shaking again and when she leans heavily on the wall at her back, the pain shooting across her flesh is only a minor discomfort, sought out and comforting.

Quietly, she mutters, "Sorry. I didn't..."

"Oh, Lottie," Millie murmurs and she gathers Lottie in her arms and holds her close, tenderly, and Lottie drops her head on her shoulder and sobs, truly and deeply. A figure hovers at the doorway, peering in, and Lottie's opens her eyes in time to catch dirt-caked boots and heavy steps as they retreat as quickly as they'd come. "Oh, my dear girl."

Millie hasn't called her that for years; it reminds her of being a little girl, of the week after her mother's funeral when her father was nowhere to be found. She'd left the house and sought out the only person she could think would care because her father had locked himself away in his grief.

 _My dear girl_ , Mille had said, holding her close and treating her every bit like one of her own children. Lottie thinks that's the best way to describe their relationship; Millie stepped in for Lottie when she had no one, when the only maternal figure in her life disappeared. Millie is as close to a mother as Lottie has ever had.

"Let it all out," advises Millie, guiding her gently to the bed. Her hand is soothing and gentle on Lottie's back, mindful of the reaching scar and bandages, and Lottie realises that this is probably what she has needed.

The last time she cried, she was in agony and wishing she had died. Now she is mourning; mourning everyone she's lost, mourning the loss of herself. She doesn't know who she is anymore, doesn't know who she is without vengeance fuelling her and pumping her blood through her veins. What does she have to live for, she thinks, when she had never thought farther ahead than killing Victor Lynch?

 _And you failed in that, dear Lottie_ , he hisses in her ear, _what will you do now_?

She doesn't know what to do next.

"I have something for you," Millie murmurs gently, and she presses whatever it was she was setting on Lottie's dresser in her hand. Lottie recognises it, recognises the feel and weight of it; the small castle piece from the chessboard in Millie's lounge, gifted to her by Ethan and, Lottie thinks now, probably stolen from that same board.

 _He said_ , Lottie hears in her head, Jack's voice from before, alive and excited and hopeful, _not to give up hope._

"They want to see you," Millie says. Lottie's blood-shot eyes shoot to her face. She still clutching the fresh shirt in her hand, the rook held tight in the other. "Ethan and Daniel and Bethany. Mr Frye has been telling them all sorts of stories about you. Hoping to tide them over while you recover."

 _Stories_ , Lottie thinks, _what stories? I haven't done anything worth regaling children with_.

"I suppose he's nice enough," Millie says with a huff and a one-shouldered shrug. "Past all that arrogance and brutishness."

Lottie's laugh is small and barely there. It doesn't reach her eyes and lasts no longer than a couple of seconds but it's the nearest she's felt to her old self than she has in days. Millie appears happy to see it, her gentle hand on Lottie's arm and her thumb rubbing soothing circles over her bandaged wrist.

"He means well," Lottie finds herself saying, because any anger she's felt towards him is gone now, replaced with the understanding that their stubbornness created her suffering, hers more than his, and what she wouldn't give to turn back time and go back to the train so much sooner.

 _I'd swallow my pride_ , she thinks, but she knows it isn't true.

"He brought your mother's jacket to me," Millie admits, "asked me if I might fix it up."

Lottie's hands clench and unclench; how long had she considered that jacket her own until recently? How long had she believed that she was filling the boots and gauntlet left behind to her by her mother?

 _All a lie_ , laughs Lynch. _You could never be her_.

Millie surprises her by saying, "I told him I'd do no such thing."

She gets off the bed and rounds it, to the bag Lottie hadn't seen by the door. It's bulging and filled to the brim, and all Lottie can see for a while is lilac and lace and a box holding a cake set demurely on top and completely out of place. Millie returns to her side, stepping over abandoned sheets and pillow cases, and pulls the strange pile out in a flurry of fabric.

"I told him I could do him one better," she says, "that I knew a fella with a quaint little shop by the cathedral."

It's nothing like her mother's jacket, not even close; the fabric is lighter and softer, nothing like what's Lottie's become used to with the leather of her mother's coat. It's smooth like velvet and the shade of lilacs, with silver buttons along the front that catch the light from the dimmed gaslights. It's as long as the jacket she used to wear, as long as Evie's appears to be, and for the first time in a long while, Lottie's excited to do something other than stay in bed for the day.

She wants to try it on.

But something holds her back.

"Jacob paid for this?" she asks in a whisper, tearing her gaze from the coat to Millie once more.

Her answer is a curt nod. "I told him that purple would be the best choice."

 _Mourning_ , Lottie thinks. _Am I going to be mourning for the rest of my life_?

She fingers the lace at the sleeves, at the edge of the pockets, embroidered on the hood. Her lips quirk.

"Not very subtle, is it?"

Millie's eyebrow twitches. "More subtle than Mr Frye," she says huffily. "Tell me, Lottie, who walks around boldly wielding a knife for all of London to see? It's a wonder he hasn't been arrested, stupid man."

 _He has been, once_ , Lottie nearly says, and if this conversation had been a month ago, she might have. _He was hypnotised._

The lace reminds her of who she was once; of the pale pink gown on the floor of her old bedroom, with the lace sleeves. Perhaps she can be both, she starts to think. Perhaps that is what Millie and Jacob are suggesting with this gift.

 _Charlotte Crawley, Assassin_ , she thinks, _and woman of class and taste_.

It has a strange ring to it.

"I'll run you a bath," Millie suggests, while Lottie's eyes remained fixated on the patterns of white against purple. "We'll have you looking respectable again in no time."

The sheer normality in her suggestion is comforting, a reminder that perhaps not all is lost, that she isn't lost, and Lottie goes gladly when Millie calls for her fifteen minutes later.

* * *

She hesitates in the hallway, wringing her hands together and wondering if there's still time for her to return to the solitude of her room.

Lottie can hear voices inside, laughs and cheers and jokes and jibes; normality against all odds, she thinks, and it doesn't seem right that she should be enjoying this, that she should be recovering when there are so many who have lost this because of her.

 _Jack should be here_ , she thinks, because it's not a lie. _Why do I get to be here while he doesn't_?

In the end, she nearly leaves; she turns her eyes towards the staircase, grander than she expects and with a red carpet that doesn't seem at all out of place, but it's her memories of Jack, of spending time with him and Bonny late in the night, early in the morning on the train that pushes her to enter the room.

The laughter falters, the jokes freeze mid-word, and Lottie regrets her choice for a split second before Bonny launches to her feet. She winces and Lottie watches her hand hover over her thigh but then she pulls Lottie into a hug and clutches her tight. There was none of this in their earlier meeting, she thinks perplexedly, none of this elation at seeing each other. There was sadness and mourning in the air, for a lost friend and a lost child.

"It's good to see you," Bonny whispers in her ear, as Lottie remembers that she needs to return the embrace. Part of Lottie knows she's not talking about her physically, but mentally too, because their last meeting saw Lottie as dull and depressed and wishing she had died.

"And you," Lottie murmurs, pulling away at last and listening to conversations start up and greetings be thrown her way. The Rooks seem at ease in this home, the room fuller than last Lottie was here, and while she's settled in the jacket that is hers, there's something missing.

Bonny's eyes rove over her outfit and she reaches out to pluck at the lace of her sleeves.

"On anyone else," she says thoughtfully, "I would think they were trying too hard to be important. On you..." she pauses, and her smile reaches her eyes. "It just matches."

Out the corner of her eye, she sees Jacob, loitering in the doorway to the dining room. She catches his eyes, sees the gentle smile that crosses his face as he leans against the doorway. He cocks his head towards the room behind him discreetly, a suggestion on his lips.

"I thought so too," Lottie says.

They part gradually, and Lottie receives gentle pats on the shoulder, inclines of the head, and lingering on the outside of the group are a man and a woman, comical in their opposing sizes and looking every bit like they don't fit in but are trying hard to. They see her walking past and an unreadable expression crosses the woman's face before she nods her head to her, the brute at her side following her lead.

Lottie returns it, though she's not quite sure why.

Jacob stands next to a china cabinet and on the table is a plate piled with food that reminds Lottie that's it's been a while since she's had a proper meal. He gestures to it expectantly and Lottie swallows the lump in her throat.

"In a minute," she mumbles uncomfortably.

This is the first time she's seen him properly in months and, while she's changed too much, he hasn't at all. The last thing he'd told her was that she shouldn't bother coming back when she failed and yet here they are, with he being the one to ensure that she did.

Gratitude does not even begin to describe the multitude of feelings she has for him now.

"I'm sorry," she tells him honestly, but she doesn't reach for him, not in the way she once might've. A frown furrows his brows.

"What? Lottie, don't start that –"

"I need to," she interrupts, more strongly than she thought herself capable of. "I'm sorry," she repeats and then, softer, lifting her eyes to his, "and thank you."

He's the reason she's alive, the reason she's here to tell him this, and even if she might still think that she doesn't deserve it, that she should have died in that basement, he deserves to know.

"You were right," she tells him as well, and her hand rests on the back of the chair closest to her as she shifts her weight, trying to alleviate the discomfort from her thigh and shoulder. Perhaps she should've accepted the sling, she thinks, when Millie offered.

Jacob pulls out a chair for her and ushers her into it.

"I like to think I am about a lot of things," Jacob muses, "so please elaborate, won't you?"

She manages to smile and huff a quiet laugh, but she can't bring herself to say the words.

"I think you know what I'm referring to," she says, because it's still too painful a memory, still too humiliating to imagine. She'd believed a Blighter, believed his lies and taunts, when she should have listened to Jacob, the man she'd been working with. She should have taken a second to breathe, to let herself think, and honesty should have been the best policy.

"It's in the past," he says after a breath. He mimics a sweeping motion with his hand. "There's nothing left to say." 

"Good," she murmurs but she's not sure she agrees.

"Good," he agrees for her.

She eats in silence for a few minutes, slowly and still unsurely, with hands that still shake and wounds that still twinge when she moves too fast. She misjudges and hits her forearm on the hard wood, inhaling a hissing breath through her teeth, and Jacob's hand is on her arm instantly, his thumb catching the lace, a worried frown on his face and his teeth worrying at his lip.

"It's nothing," she manages, "the skin is still a little tender, that's all."

Lottie can hardly wait for the day she's not bothered by this anymore, not bothered by burns and cuts and knife wounds. They're inconvenient and troublesome and a reminder of things she'd rather forget.

Jacob's grip moves to her hand, ghosting over the flesh before it rests there, engulfing her own, anchoring her.

She can remember before, feeling comforted by this touch that's sending butterflies aflutter in her stomach, but now it seems too soon, too wrong, and she needs to breathe and step away. Everything's too different now, nothing's the same as she remembers.

"Jacob," she murmurs, and she pulls her hand from his, back towards herself, suddenly cowardly and unsure. "You don't know who I am. Not really."

 _Do I even know myself anymore_? She wonders.

Aloud, she murmurs, "I don't even know myself anymore."

He reaches for her again but seems to think better of it. Then, he says, "We'll discover together," and smiles gently, more gently than Lottie expects.

She doesn't hear Lynch, taunting her, doesn't hear his biting words to give her doubt again.

Jacob's smile is genuine and relieved and everything Lottie's missed about him. She believes him, she thinks, that she'll find herself, discover herself, that she'll be able to find who she was before everything.

 _Vengeance is not all I am_ , she tells herself, and when Jacob reaches for her hand again she meets him half way, entwining their fingers. _I am more than that_.

 _I am a Crawley and I endure_.


	29. Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie faces her demons and lays her father to rest.

Jack's home is a quaint little place in the centre of Lambeth, hidden at the back of a cul-de-sac of houses and with a small garden. There are pots on the window sill, full of snow and wilted flowers, and a small face stares through the crack between the door and the frame, watching Lottie and Bonny as they wander up the path.

"Good morning, Sylvia," Bonny says gently. "Is your mother here?"

Sylvia's tiny head bobs in a nod and she steps away from the door to allow them entry. It's hanging off its hinges and cracked like the stones of path and Lottie's gentle as she shuts it behind her, but even that doesn't stop it from creaking and shaking in her grip. It's a struggle to get it to fit in the frame and she fears that pushing it any further will break it completely.

 _How much was Jack getting paid_? Lottie wonders, following Bonny through the house, slower than usual. Her thigh twinges in discomfort and from the cold outside and she knows it's too soon for her to walking this much, moving this much, but she needs a distraction from everything.

 _Not enough_ , she thinks as her eyes scan over the ruined wallpaper and the ripped carpets, the cracked windows and broken handrails on the stairs. Her foot catches on the carpet, upturned and revealing the wooden flooring below, wet and dirty and looking, worrisomely, like it's in the beginning stages of rot.

 _How many Rooks are there?_ Lottie ponders, as ahead Bonny embraces another woman with hair a darker blonde than Lottie's and dark circles around her eyes. She's still plump around the belly from her pregnancy and her shoulders are slumped and Lottie is struck by the exhaustion this woman seems to exude.

She spies Lottie over Bonny's shoulder and Lottie sees the recognition when it flares.

"Martha," Bonny says as Lottie approaches. Her hand takes Lottie's and draws her closer. "This is Charlotte Crawley."

Martha's handshake is feeble and weak.

"Jack spoke about you often," Martha says and her smile is as weak as her handshake.

Lottie can't say the same; she'd found out about Martha and Jack's family only before he died, after many nights drinking with him. She hadn't asked, hadn't cared to, and she thinks now how awful a friend that must make her.

Lottie smiles sadly. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely, words that have plagued her since she woke in a warm bed with her injuries tended to. "I'm so sorry."

Martha's smile falters and her eyes fill with unshed tears. "I've come to terms with it," she tells Lottie. "It's how he would have wanted to go."

Lottie hasn't come to terms with it, nor has she forgiven herself. She doesn't think she ever will. Martha takes her hand, gently, comfortingly, and Lottie feels like it should be the other way round; she shouldn't be receiving comfort from the widow of her friend.

 _Was he really my friend?_ Lottie thinks then, as Bonny ushers the two women into the kitchen and starts to heat the kettle. _I knew so little about him_.

How he wanted to go, Lottie thinks then, as she settles in the moth-eaten sofa and tries to keep her expression neutral. None of this is what's she's used to; even the conditions on the train where better than this. She wonders if that's why Jack was often in the dining car with Bonny, if that was why he was often there late, drinking. Was the condition of his home so unfavourable that he'd rather not go home at all?

But he loved his family so much, she knows, if the way he spoke about them is anything to go by. He spoke of them with nothing but love and affection and excitement for the new arrival. Why wouldn't he want to come home?

"It's not much," Martha says softly and Lottie's eyes dart to her, alarmed at being caught so blatantly. "But it's our home."

 _How much does Jacob pay them_? Lottie wonders again. _Surely enough to fix up their home_?

In the beginning, she knows, the money coming in from the Rooks wasn't, exactly, _legal_ , but now she knows that Jacob and Evie have set up businesses in London; pubs around the city and shops as well. The money from those was _clean_ , despite the Rooks and the Frye's black market ties.

 _I need to talk to Jacob later_ , Lottie thinks, and she subtly studies the lounge area again as Bonny walks in, a tray in her arms. _See about getting some money to Martha and her children_.

Sylvia peers around the corner and her eyes are wide and blue and so innocent. Beside her is a little boy with hair bright red like his father and staring at Bonny's jacket in fascination.

"Papa had a jacket like that," he states, breaking the silence between the women. Martha shoos him away quickly and Sylvia, more grown up than Lottie had seen of the little girl at the door, guides him away.

Bonny starts with, "Mr Frye wants to come and see you."

Lottie looks at Bonny sharply, unprepared for this new information, but Martha's answer is a defeated sigh, as though this is a conversation that's been had before.

"I know," she says quietly. "I received his letter."

"He wants you looked after," Bonny insists. "Meet with him, that's all he wants."

 _For now_ , Lottie thinks is unsaid but Bonny is wringing her hands together in her lap and looking earnestly at Jack's widow, achingly, pleadingly. Lottie is still watching her when Bonny's eyes swivel to where she sits, silently, and she sees the look for what it is; _help me_ , Bonny mouths, and she nods her head towards Martha.

Lottie reaches forward and gently takes Martha's hand.

"I can only imagine what you're going through," Lottie starts but she wants to say something else, wants to say _I know how you feel_ or _I understand that this is difficult_ , because she's familiar with grief and pain and guilt. They are old friends to her now, surfacing when she least wants them to and lingering for days. She wants to tell Martha that she isn't alone in her grief, that Lottie and Bonny feel it too, but how can she say that without making the woman feel that her pain is invalid? That she should have pulled herself together long ago for the sake of her children and herself?

Lottie swallows and adds, "Jacob only wants to see how you're doing. He wants to help."

"Jack served the Rooks well," Bonny says, "and no one knows that more than Mr Frye."

Lottie doesn't miss the sidelong glance Bonny gives her, the words that hover over her head like a grey cloud; _he saved my life_ , Lottie thinks, _and he served the Rooks well_. _He was taken too soon_.

She gathers her courage.

"Martha," she says softly, squeezing the woman's hands gently. "I owe your husband my life. I'm so sorry that he lost his because of that."

Martha crumbles right before her eyes, heaving great sobs that wrack her shoulders and make her shrink in on herself. Bonny leans over to offer her own support, bidding the woman close and embracing her tightly. Lottie's thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand, in the way she remembers Jacob used to do for her, before everything, after everything, in the quiet moments between chaos.

"Let him help you," Lottie insists quietly.

Martha nods slowly and smiles shakily. It doesn't reach her eyes and it's a look Lottie is all too familiar with, a look that she herself wears more often now. She understands it; behind the smile there is pain and suffering and hesitation. How can they go on when those they love no longer stand beside them? How can they go on after everything that's happened?

 _We endure_ , her father whispers and Lottie's nod is small and barely there.

She squeezes Martha's hand again, even more gently, and says, "You must endure this – for your children. For Jack."

Martha nods once and Lottie can see the conflict on her face, the faltering strength, all before the woman takes her hand from Lottie and wipes her tears. Her bottom lip trembles and her eyes are blood-shot and Lottie is reminded of herself, of needing someone to fall apart upon and count on to pick her back up and set her on her feet.

"What about..." Martha clears her throat and draws her hands into her lap. They grab the skirts of her dress and wring them in her hands. "The man who killed him. Where is he?"

"The man who did the deed is dead," Bonny tells Martha surely because Lottie has suddenly lost her voice. "The man who ordered it remains at large."

Lottie frowns at her boots and bites her lip. Her hands are shaking again and she can feel phantom hands tracing patterns on her skin as a voice hisses and laughs in her ear. The strength she had for Martha is waning, the façade she had worn is slipping. She hasn't come to terms with any of it, hasn't come to terms with Jack's death or her father's death, any of it.

She can remember it all so vividly – the man standing over her, whipping out his pistol and shooting Jack dead right there before her eyes while she'd watched it all, helpless to prevent it. They'd dishonoured him after, dragged his body before her bruised and beaten one, and broken her spirit by doing so.

"Miss Lottie," Martha says suddenly, reaching out to clutch at Lottie's hand. They're cold and her fingers are clawed and desperate. "Promise me. _Promise_ me you will kill him."

Lottie's eyes shoot helplessly to Bonny but the other woman won't meet her pleading gaze.

"I..." her voice falters. _She can't_ , she wants to say, because it's true. She doesn't even have weapons with her; a stupid and irresponsible choice fuelled by the realisation that she can't hold a weapon in her hands because they shake too much.

"I need you to promise me," Martha insists, and over her shoulder Lottie sees the tiny heads of her children peering into the room, innocent and curious and fatherless.

 _Because of you_ , Lynch whispers.

 _I can fix this_ , Lottie thinks, _hopes_ , because the thought is terrifying.

"I... I promise, Martha." She stumbles over the words, a promise with more weight behind it that she wants. "I'll kill him. For you."

"For Jack," Martha corrects.

Lottie nods. "For Jack."

And for her father, and Sarah, and Noah and John, all of them who she's lost. She has to kill him, she thinks, for them all, because letting him live now isn't an option anymore. She's promised this woman, the widow of her friend, and now she must face her demons once more.

She must face them and win. 

* * *

The Rooks part for them when they enter the bar and hands slap Bonny on the shoulders and back as she passes, shows of comfort that show Lottie just how close the Rooks are.

 _Family_ , she thinks, _because they seem to be all Bonny has_.

They take a small table at the back, away from the crowd and the noise, and Lottie is absurdly grateful to get off her feet, to rest her pains and aches and to massage her wounded thigh. Bonny is apologetic and worried and leaves her briefly to grab them some drinks.

Lottie picks at a knot in the wood of the table to occupy her trembling fingers and uses the silence to _think_.

She made Martha a promise, one that she's not sure she can carry out but one that she knows she has a duty to. A month ago, Lottie wouldn't have hesitated to begin her hunt. A month ago, Lottie was _already_ in the midst of her hunt.

 _And what benefits did it reap me_? She thinks glumly as Bonny slides back into her seat and sets a beer in front of her. She can feel those phantom hands again and she shudders.

"So, Boss," Bonny jokes lightly, after taking a long drink. "Where do we start?"

It's not that easy anymore, not without Jack, not after everything that happened. Before, the three of them had been a team, drinking buddies and unlikely friends, and it had been easy, _so easy_ , to fall into step with them and come up with a plan.

They hadn't gotten far enough to enact the plan but Lottie had been comforted by the idea that with them, she could have taken Lynch's life and ended all of it.

Just the two of them isn't as appealing, especially not now, not in the aftermath of everything.

"There isn't one," Lottie replies, cradling the warm glass bottle in her hands.

Bonny looks mildly surprised and then she nods.

"Alright," she comments. "Not what I expected but Mr Frye has the same philosophy –"

"No," Lottie interrupts, fixing Bonny with a stare. "I don't have a plan because I don't think I..."

Her words taper off but she knows from the realisation dawning on Bonny's face that finishing the sentence is unnecessary.

 _I don't think I can do it_.

Vengeance is all she has wanted for so long that the simple statement has her turning her eyes away and her fingers stilling on the table. She has wanted Lynch to suffer as she has, wanted to plunge the Kukri she can't even look at anymore into his throat and watch his life drain from his eyes. She has wanted his life in exchange for her father's, for Noah, for Sarah, for John.

 _For Jack_.

But that was when she was foolish and naïve, when she believed that she could kill Lynch alone, that she could find him and end it all _alone_. Now the thought that she used to scorn so long ago has become a simple truth.

 _She will never be better than the Frye's_.

And she knows that now.

Bonny slams her empty bottle on the table, drawing Lottie's startled eyes.

"No," she says, "we're not letting the bastard go free. We're _not_."

Lottie's options are limited but as a cheer breaks out from the crowd near the bar, and whistles and calls of "Boss" fill the air, another one suddenly comes to mind.

She turns in her seat and catches Jacob's eyes.

* * *

 

"How do you know this?"

The building is old and the windows are boarded up. If not for the Blighters patrolling the building, Lottie would agree with the assumption that it's abandoned.

"A friend," Jacob replies vaguely but he elaborates after a pointed stare from Lottie. "Maxwell Roth told me."

She freezes in place and starts to backtrack. "We can't go in there. It's a trap, it has to be."

Those phantom hands don't ghost along her skin anymore, they clamp on her limbs and her heart and hold it in a death grip. Going into that building in the light of this new information is stupid and the memories of her suffering are too raw.

Lynch won't let her live, not this time, and Lottie's not willing to walk into his grasp, not like last time.

"It's not," Jacob says, and he fixes her with a carefree smirk. "Roth and Starrick aren't exactly seeing eye to eye. He gave me the information freely."

"Roth taught Lynch," Lottie says and there's an embarrassing shake to her voice, a fear that shouldn't be there. "He taught him everything he knows. Why would he give up the location of the last Blighter leader in London? Why would he endanger Starrick's control like that?"

Jacob shrugs. "Why not?"

"You can't trust him."

"Of course I don't." He pauses and turns his eyes back to the building. "Lynch is on the top floor, the room on the farthest left."

"We have to be quick," Lottie says, but she hasn't forgotten the confusing elation she'd heard in Jacob's voice when he spoke of Roth, when he said _why not_? She doesn't like it. "We can't let him disappear again."

"No, we can't," agrees Jacob.

He reaches for something inside his coat and Lottie sees his eyes flitting over her form. She shifts uncomfortably under his stare and she knows what he's going to say before he voices the words.

"You're not wearing your gauntlet."

She quips back, "If you look close enough, Mr Frye, you'll find I'm completely unarmed."

"Well that was bloody stupid of you," he shoots back.

"Don't act so surprised, Jacob, you've known the whole time."

His lips quirk. "Perhaps."

He draws out a weapon from his coat with a flourish and brandishes it before her and her heart stops. She _knows_ it, knows the curve of the blade and the light wood of the hilt, always seen but never touched. She recognises the carvings along the wood, the words engraved on the blade that she now understands more than she ever did before; _we endure_.

Her father's Kukri blade.

"Where did you...?"

Her hand shakes as she reaches for the weapon and if not for Jacob stepping closer, gently encouraging her and placing it in her hand, Lottie's sure that she wouldn't have taken it.

It should feel wrong. She should feel ashamed to be holding his weapon, to be holding something once looked upon with pride, that once sat atop their mantle and was the subject of many a conversation.

Instead, it fills her with courage and feels _right_.

"I spotted it," Jacob says softly, "after. Thought it would be a shame to just leave it there."

Lottie had left it there because she'd felt unworthy of it. Now it's the only weapon she feels she can hold at all.

"It seems right that it be used to end the bastard's life."

Her eyes sting with tears that she refuses to shed. She's cried too much and she's unwilling to do so anymore but her emotions read on her face like an open book and Jacob reaches for her, brushing tendrils of hair from her face with a touch that's so familiar and so foreign.

 _Everything's different_ , Lottie agonises.

She reaches for one of the hands that cradles her cheek and squeezes it gently and she hates the words that leave her lips after, said again after weeks.

"You don't really know me. _I_ don't even know me."

"That doesn't matter."

"But it does." 

"Lottie, come on," Jacob says, and there's a tint of frustration behind his words, a little fight that Lottie wishes she shared in her own, "what's happened to you?"

Lottie swallows. "You know what did."

She's conflicted by the saddened and guilty expression that crosses his face and she misses his touch in the seconds after as he pulls away and turns his eyes to the building once more. He's all focus now, concentrated rage and the Jacob Frye she remembers from their first assassination together. She wishes she could ask what he's so angry about, wishes he could air his pains in the way she has been forced to.

But before she can, he says, "Try to stay away from the fighting." 

* * *

Jacob fights like he's facing the devil himself and Lottie can't take her eyes off him.

Bonny stays by her side always, fending off any Blighters who try to come near, and the situation is so eerily similar to that afternoon in the snow, standing back to back with Jack and Bonny before she told them to _go_ that Lottie nearly flees the building.

She doesn't think she can do this but her vengeance dictates it; _for Jack, for father, for Noah and John and Sarah. This is for them_.

Jacob is elegant and deadly and serious and thrilled by it all and she's glad he's there, glad that out of everything about this that seems too familiar, he's the one difference and the one that will change the outcome. She still holds her father's Kukri blade in her hand and she's still not sure if she can use it, but when Blighters see her and start their charge, they don't get close enough for her to try anyway.

There's a trail of bodies when they finally reach the farthest door on the left and Lottie's stomach is churning and her hands are shaking and how can she face him again after everything? How can she let Jacob go in there, how can she do this?

 _Martha_ , Lottie thinks, _father, Noah, John, Sarah._

She takes a deep breath.

 _Jack_.

Jacob pauses at the door, his hand hovering over the handle but his eyes fixed on the dark wood that stands in their way. Lottie has gotten used to this over their many outings, used to the Vision he's told her he has, and while at first she had been sceptical, she has since learned to trust it.

He holds up a hand to Lottie and Bonny.

"Wait here," he says and Lottie doesn't argue.

* * *

The screams stop shortly after Jacob enters the room and when the door swings open again, there's blood on his hands and his face and he's missing his top hat.

There's a gleam to his dark eyes that Lottie can't place and his jaw is clenched. His dark hair is unkempt and messy and speckled with blood and the stare he fixes her with is hard and serious. He doesn't say a word and he doesn't have to; she knows that now is the time, she knows that now her vengeance is near.

It's nothing like she's imagined. How long has she dreamt of this moment, thought of this moment, of taking the steps towards Victor Lynch and ending the evil bastard's life? How long has she thought of how it would feel to plunge her Kukri into his throat, to watch him die? How long has she thought of the satisfaction it would bring her?

She doesn't feel any satisfaction now, doesn't feel anything but nervous trepidation and fear. This fear hadn't been within her two months ago when she hunted him. This fear is newly arisen, instilled in her as part of her suffering.

She hesitates.

Bonny takes her hand.

"For Jack," she whispers, barely audible and in Lottie's ear, but Lottie is sure that Jacob has heard.

He doesn't say anything but he wordlessly steps aside.

All of Lottie's aches blend into one, coming to the forefront of her mind and reminding her of her suffering. Each step is a lifetime and an uphill battle, echoing in the cold and the dark in ways that she's sure must be impossible. For one heart-stopping second, she fears that she might drop her father's Kukri, that the hilt will slip from her fingers and to the blood-soaked floor.

 _For Jack_ , she thinks, seeing Martha's face in her mind, her sobbing expression and the bounce of her shoulders as she cried.

 _For Noah_ , who tutored Lottie when her father couldn't.

 _For John_ , who protected her when she strayed too far.

 _For Sarah_ , who pulled her away from that door and set her on the path to the assassins.

She enters the room.

 _For father_.

Victor Lynch is broken, she thinks is the only word to describe him, a heap on the floor, slumped against the wall under the window. His legs lie at odd angles, bones splintered and protruding from the skin, and when he glances up at her, hearing her soft footfalls, there is no trace of the smirk that haunts her dreams. There is no trace of the laugh she can still hear ringing in her ears late at night on the cusp of sleep. There is no trace of the monster who forced her to suffer for his experiments, for his amusement.

His left eye is swollen shut, an injury eerily reminiscent of the one she sustained at his hands, and every finger on his hands is broken. The sight makes her stomach lurch – Lottie's sure that seeing these injuries on anyone else would see her vomiting in the corner but with Lynch, she feels only sick satisfaction.

He spits at her feet, blood that misses her boot by inches, and his eyes roll to meet hers.

They are the same, dark and cold, and his lips curl, revealing bloody teeth.

"Here to finish me off, dear Lottie?" he crows at her in a broken voice, croaking a laugh that's still confident and cruel even after his suffering.

 _It's not fair_ , she thinks, _that he should still remain strong when I could not_.

"Don't call her that," Jacob snarls from behind her while the leather of Lottie's glove creaks as she clenches her fist.

Lynch laughs again and ignores him, his taunts directed towards her. "Or are you going to set your  dog on me again?" The light from the full moon catches silver; a throwing knife stuck deep in his shoulder, to the hilt. "You're _weak_ , dear Lottie."

Jacob goes to move forward, squaring his shoulders and reaching for a weapon. Lottie doesn't look over her shoulder but she hears a murmur from Bonny, hears a hushed argument arising from the Rook's hand resting dangerously on her Boss's arm. Lottie doesn't move, doesn't pull her eyes away from Lynch.

He spits again, at the floor beside his hand, and Lottie's hand stops shaking.

"You can't do it," spits Lynch, taunting and laughing at her still, even with his death staring him in the face. "You're _weak_."

Lottie approaches slowly, every movement measured and drawn out, and she crouches beside him. Her thigh wound flares but she hardly feels it, focussed and intent on the face of her demons, the taunting voice and grating laugh of her darkest nightmares.

She sees the moment he realises she _can_ do it and will; the widening of his eyes when the moonlight catches the curved blade in her hand, the parting of his lips as the tip hovers at the hollow of his neck.

Slowly and methodically, the knife pierces the skin and plunges inward. Lynch gasps and chokes, gagging on the blood that pools in his mouth and overflows, dribbling down his chin and over the hilt of her father's blade and her hand.

Lottie watches, silent and vengeful, as his eyes meets hers one last time, as his bloody lips curve upwards in one last mocking smile that she sees for what it is; he has won, in every one of their encounters, and his death by no means signals the end of her battle with him. She is haunted still and he knows it, and his ghost will linger over her shoulder for many years to come.

His eyes become glassy and unfocussed and dull and Lottie tugs free her father's Kukri with an almighty pull that brings to life old pains and reminds her that she is not at full strength.

She stumbles from her crouch and reaches for the window sill for support.

"Requiescat in pace," she hears herself say, so far away, words Lottie knows her father would say, an old homage to a master assassin from long ago that she herself has only said once before.

The blade slips from her hand as she pulls herself to her feet, her strength failing with the realisation that dawns.

 _It's over_ , she thinks, because for one blissful moment that how it feels, _it's over_.

Jacob catches her as she stumbles towards the door and she hears him say something to Bonny, a quiet order lost in the actions afterward, when he sweeps her legs out from under her and cradles her close to his chest.

* * *

 

The funeral is a quiet affair at Lottie's request, with only a handful of Rooks present to ensure their safety.

The minister completes the ceremony and Lottie refuses to say anything in front of company; the words she wants to say are her own, her own farewell that she needs privacy for. She has her guilt's to air and her own peace to make and she can't do that with assassins and Rooks hovering around, with Jack's family and her friends.

"I'll be fine," she tells Jacob softly because she understands his wariness and doesn't resent him for it.

"The Rooks will wait for however long you need," he tells her, because he can't wait with her, not when he has another engagement that he won't tell her about.

She inclines her head. "Thank you."

He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, a swift farewell, but he's hesitant to release her hands, hesitant to leave her alone.

She watches his back as he leaves the graveyard, watches the Rooks hover nearby as he gives his orders and she watches him hop onto a carriage. She doesn't pull her eyes away until he's out of sight, until four Rooks are left by the street and no one else.

Lottie lowers herself slowly to kneel before the stones, set side by side, one darker and worn by the weather, the other lighter and newer. The graves each bear the symbol of the Brotherhood, engraved below the names – JONATHAN CRAWLEY, DEVOTED HUSBAND AND LOVING FATHER. Her mother's beside it, there for longer and visited so infrequently, EVANGELINE CRAWLEY, DEVOTED WIFE, LOVING MOTHER – and Lottie traces the shape with her finger as her eyes rake over her mother's name.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, her eyes watering. She shifts her gaze towards her father's stone. "I'm so sorry this had to happen this way."

She sniffles and wipes delicately at her nose. She reaches for her father's grave, adjusting the bouquet of flowers Evie had set there for her, admiring the assortment of flowers; lilies, she recognises, light pink and white, but she's never understood the language of flowers and she doesn't recognise the others. There's a bouquet of calla lilies placed in front of her mother's, at Lottie's request, and she adjusts them too.

"I hope you're happy now," she tells her mother, "I hope you've been reunited." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I hope you're proud of me."

Her eyes flit to her father again.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save them. I'm sorry I didn't join the war sooner. I'm sorry you died because of my indecision."

She has much to apologise for, she knows, and she could kneel here all day and profess her sorrows to the dead. Instead, she starts to slowly get to her feet, hearing commotions at the gate, voices speaking words she can't hear over the wind. Gingerly and mindful of the discomfort she still feels from her wounds, she dusts the snow from her legs and coat.

"I'll make you proud of me, papa," she murmurs, the word slipping from her tongue that she hasn't used since she was a little girl.

She feels the shift in the air before she hears or sees him and when she stands from the grave, her gloved hand still resting on the cold stone, there's a gentle smile on her face and a greeting on her lips. She should have known Jacob couldn't leave her be, she thinks; they've all been wary of leaving her alone lately.

But when she turns the words die on her lips. Jacob isn't the one standing behind her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Crawley," says Crawford Starrick. "I hope I find you well."


	30. Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie takes steps to ensure the Brotherhood's survival and Jacob's partnership with Maxwell Roth comes to an end.

The wind has blown her hair into her eyes but Lottie doesn't dare move to brush it aside.

He's even more intimidating in person, more terrifying than all the stories Lottie's father used to tell her.

_Soft spoken and quick to temper_ , her father used to say, and then, with some sort of admiration, _the Templars could not have a better leader_.

He approaches slowly, passing her to lay a bouquet on her mother's grave; dark crimson roses, tied together with a delicate purple ribbon the same shade as the scarf he wears and the trimmings of his dark coat. She watches him warily, her voice stuck in her throat; she wants to tell him to leave, to remove himself from her sight and to never again invade this space. She wants to warn him of what will happen if she ever sees him before her parent's graves again but she's ever aware that she's in no state to be making threats.

Crawford Starrick could easily cut her down and she might give very little fight.

She's unarmed, a choice she'd willingly made upon waking and knowing that today she would lay her father to rest.

Starrick's gloved hand rests upon the dark stone of Evangeline Crawley's grave and he doesn't move for the longest time. Over Lottie's shoulder, she sees the Rooks Jacob had left to protect her, watching the two of them curiously and held at gunpoint. Lottie's heart skips a beat when she sees Bonny, standing in the entryway, her eyes never leaving Lottie.

"Let them go," she forces herself to say and she hates the waver in her voice.

"No blood will be spilled today, Miss Crawley," Starrick tells her, and he draws his hand away from her mother's grave. His eyes are fixed on the newer stone now, the lighter grey and the engraving of her father's name. His lip twitches only slightly and Lottie would have missed it if she wasn't watching him so closely. "Despite these past encounters, I hope you know I held your father in the highest regard."

Lottie's hand clenches into a fist. "Is that why you had Victor Lynch murder him?"

Starrick turns his cold, dark eyes towards her at last and Lottie struggles to remain strong under his gaze. His voice never loses its soft hostility. "I held him in high regard, Miss Crawley, but the moves he was making against me could not go unanswered."

Lottie's eyes shift to the Rooks on the street again, to Bonny.

_I can't put her in more danger_ , she thinks, _I can't do this to her again_.

"Let them leave," she urges, "and we can talk all you like."

"You are hardly in any position to bargain with me, Miss Crawley."

"Am I not?" She gathers her courage. "You're hardly winning this war, Mr Starrick."

His amiable expression falters and his lip starts to curl; he gestures to a Blighter hovering by his shoulder and Lottie holds her breath as he strides towards the Blighters by the entryway.

She breathes only a little easier when the Rooks starts to disperse slowly; Lottie nods to Bonny once when the woman doesn't move and she can see the returning nod for what it is – a promise to return with Jacob.

Starrick's hand has returned to Evangeline Crawley's grave, set flat atop the stone while the wind disturbs the petals of the roses set by his foot. The action is curious; she can't fathom why the Grand Master of the Templars would set flowers before her mother's grave, why he would care enough to bother.

An illusion, she wonders, to provide her with a false sense of security? A trick to make her believe he's there because he genuinely held her parents in high regard?

Politely, and because she would like to leave this encounter alive, Lottie says, "Thank you."

Starrick inclines his head and Lottie's eyes shift to the Templar cross that hands from his neck, blood red and silver and the chain glinting in the light.

"Father used to say that my mother loved roses," Lottie says next, partly out of curiosity. "How did you know that?"

He doesn't answer and his eyes have yet to leave her mother's grave. Lottie doesn't like it; there's some hidden story here, she thinks, something her father didn't tell her and something Crawford Starrick won't.

Instead of answering her question, he says, "Please accept my sincerest apologies for the truly appalling treatment of your father's body upon his death." His voice turns soft and Lottie hates that the man actually sounds sincere. "It was never my intention."

With a biting scoff, she says, "Oh, no, your _intention_ was merely to have him – and _me_ – murdered."

"Regrettable," he returns, "but necessary."

Lottie's struck by the echo of the words; Lynch had told her the same thing and now Lottie knows for certain that the order came from Starrick. She knows he's completely sincere, can see it in the firm way he holds himself, the careful pronunciation of every word, giving her time to process every single thing he says.

She swallows and remains silent and while the Grand Master is preoccupied, she chances a glance over her shoulder, to the street the Rooks had disappeared to. But she's still alone, still in a place she had thought safe, still mourning and barely able to think clearly.

Starrick turns those cruel eyes to her again. They rove over her, over the dark purple of her coat and the lace trimmings, her bare arm where her gauntlet would ordinarily be but that she hasn't worn in weeks. The chilly wind bites at her cheeks and her eyes water but even if these tears are not from grief, Lottie refuses to cry in front of him.

"All good things end, Miss Crawley," Starrick says and his voice never loses its careful and sincere edge. "As they all must."

Lottie's not sure to what he refers; to the assassins and their fight for London? Or to her parents, to the calm and safe like she once held dear with her father?

"Yes, they must," she says, "I would think you know that more than anyone right now."

It's a risky thing to say, given her still healing injuries and her unarmed position. He starts to walk past her, his back straight and his posture proper, and she doesn't miss the sneer that crosses his face. It's brief and he's quick to re-establish his blank expression but Lottie knows she struck a nerve. While she doesn't think on the memory fondly in the aftermath of all that's happened, she recalls the biting words she had thrown at Jacob on the train and attempts to remember those feelings, to channel here while she has the chance.

She doesn't know if he'll kill her if she says the wrong thing and she hopes if he draws a weapon, she'll have an ally by her side when it happens.

"How does it feel, Mr Starrick?" she asks, half-turning to watch as he starts to leave the cemetery. "How does it feel to watch everything you've built crumble around you?"

He doesn't stiffen or react in any way. Instead, he tells her, "Legacies can be rebuilt. It would be in your best interest to remember that when I establish my rule."

Lottie's brows furrow and she turns so she's fully facing him, watching his shoulders work as he rolls them, as though he's preparing for a fight. Instinctively, Lottie's hand clench into fists and she readies herself, ready to defend and fight back should she need to.

"Your rule?" she returns sceptically. "Is that what you want? To rule over Britain?"

He doesn't answer her question. Instead he says, "You should leave London, Miss Crawley, while I give you the chance."

She doesn't move until the door closes behind him, until the driver has urged the horses onward and the dark wood has disappeared around the corner. Only then does she turn back to her parent's grave, grasping desperately at the bouquet of roses he'd laid down and unable to pull her eyes away from it even as another carriage comes careening round the corner.

Now that he's gone, her hands are shaking uncontrollably and Lottie realises how close she'd been to death yet again. The stems of the roses are still wet from the water they'd no doubt been kept in before he took them here and the petals drop from the flowers and to the grass at the base of her mother's grave. They fall like drops of blood and Lottie can hardly pull her eyes away from it.

Jacob shouts her name and Lottie's breathing has turned erratic. She strains her still recovering shoulder as she launches the bouquet across the stones around her, far away from her parents, far away from herself. She wants nothing from that man, nothing that could further insult her loss or her memory of her parents.

His hands are on her arms and he gently pulls her into his embrace, his chin resting atop her head as she clutches him for dear life, still shaking but aware now more than ever than the time for mourning has passed.

_Legacies can be rebuilt_ , he'd told her, referring to his own destroyed livelihood, in pieces around him. The words strike a chord within her, her own plans forming in her mind.

Her eyes return to her parent's graves.

_Legacies can be rebuilt_.

* * *

"It's not going to work," Jacob tells her as Lottie tries to get used to the feel of her weapons again. Her gauntlet feels heavier on her arm somehow, different to what she remembers. It doesn't feel right but it doesn't feel wrong either and Lottie thinks it might take her whole life before she feels comfortable with it again.

"You don't know that," she says, throwing him a look over her shoulder where he strolls along behind her. "Evie and Henry think it's a good idea. What's going on with them anyway?"

Jacob shrugs, unconcerned. "A lover's spat, I imagine," he says. "Really, Lottie, you and I both know that Millie won't go for it."

"You don't know that," she sing-songs. "Besides, it's different this time."

"Is it?"

"Yes," she insists, "we're asking for _permission_."

She hears him scoff and mumble under his breath and she stops walking to face him head on, a gentle smile on her face and a fire in her eyes that she hasn't felt for months.

"If you're not going to help, then I'm sure you have something better to be doing," she says and then, sarcastically, "I'm sure your new Blighter friend has many things for you to be doing."

His expression is blank and then he says, with a roll of his eyes, "I knew you didn't approve."

"Of course I don't approve," she throws back. "Mr Roth might be working against Starrick _for now_ but what will you do if it comes to light that they've been working together the whole time?"

"You sound just like Evie," he grumbles and when her stern expression doesn't let up, he adds, "Are you sure you're not secretly related?"

"God, I hope not," she says, "that would make this incredibly awkward." She leans up to press a kiss to his lips, quick and flighty, and she gives him a light shove. "Go. I'll handle this alone."

She doesn't know how Millie will react but she worries that the woman will immediately blame Jacob or Evie and Lottie needs to tell her that this is _all her_ , that this is Lottie's attempt to redeem herself, to rebuild what's been broken.

Jacob becomes guarded and wary. "Are you sure?"

"It's not that far," she tells him with a shrug. "I won't get into any trouble." She pauses. "Any more than usual."

Jacob doesn't move still and her words appear to have done nothing to comfort him. She kisses him again, gently but equally firmly, and her hand takes his.

"I'll be fine," she murmurs. "I promise."

Finally, he nods, slowly and reluctantly, and he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before releasing her hand and turning away.

"Don't die," he throws over his shoulder but there's no playful tone to it, only firm sincerity.

_I'll try not to_ , she thinks, turning the corner and continuing her walk alone.

The city looks different now, Lottie can't help but think, the people happier and lighter. The Rooks she passes incline their heads and bid her a good afternoon, tipping their hats to her and smiling genially. She still finds it hard, thinks it will always be hard, to accept their kindness and words when every green coat she sees reminds her of Jack, of her failure in regards to him, and she hopes it doesn't get easier. If it gets easier, she might forget him, in time, and she doesn't ever want that.

The Cathedral shines in the bright noon sun and she stops walking, staring upwards at the curve of the dome, the light stone work and the beautiful architecture. The last time she had paid the cathedral any mind had been nearly a year ago, as she passed it in the middle of the night and in the pouring rain. She had been crying then, her heart broken and her grief plain for all to see. It had been a sign that she was close to safety.

Shouting interrupts her quiet reflection, angry voices that don't belong in this beautiful city anymore, in the calm in the aftermath of the Blighters' cruelty.

Lottie looks over her shoulder, seeking out the disturbance, and finds two men in red, one lanky and with greying hair and the other short and holding a small girl against the wall.

_Don't die_ , Jacob says in her mind, but Lottie can't let this go unnoticed.

She starts towards them.

"Hand it over ye little runt," demands the short man, and Lottie sees the small knife in his hand as she draws closer, and the small bag of money clutched in the little girl's. There's terror and boldness on her face in equal measures and Lottie arrives near just in time for the girl to kick her leg out and catch her captor's knee.

He shouts in surprise and rage and Lottie's hand grasps his arm before she can think anything through, before she can call attention to herself.

In the end, her face does everything for her. The Blighters' see her, see her gauntlet and her coat, her blonde hair and confident eyes, and they start to scramble away. She's grateful for it because she's still unsure if she can handle a fight, if she can take on two in the way she used to. She's glad she came across as confident when she feels anything but, when her actions were simply instinct and a fury that's returning to her in small measures.

_The rage of Lottie Crawley_ , the Blighters used to mock. She can still hear their yells as she suffered.

Finally, she looks at the little girl they had tormented.

There's fire burning in her eyes and in her hair and when Lottie asks her name, some part of her thinks she might already know it, some impossible thought that is quickly dispersed.

"Georgiana," says the little girl, with a defiant lift of her chin and a trembling in her bottom lip.

"Where are your parents, Georgiana?" asks Lottie gently, shakily, because all she can think of is the little boy Martha lost, John George, and the possibility that this little girl would have shared the same name is things had been different.

"Gone," says Georgiana bluntly.

The bright spring sun catches in her fiery hair and it shines like copper and all Lottie can see is _Amelie_ , is sketches of a woman lost before Lottie's time.

_Impossible_ , she thinks, but Lottie can't let her walk away.

"Gone where?" she presses softly but part of her thinks she might already know the answer.

"Dead," says the little girl and she turns her bright and intelligent eyes to the cobblestones at her feet.

Lottie nods. "Where have you been staying?" Already she wants to see this girl looked after, see her safe and well, to avoid ever seeing again what those Blighters were doing to her.

Georgiana folds her arms across her chest and says sulkily, "That's none of your business."

She's smart, Lottie thinks, the beginning stages of a smile coming to her lips, and every word she speaks is well pronounced. She's been educated, or started to be at least, and Lottie is becoming more and more fond of her.

"My name is Lottie," she introduces, and Georgiana's firm handshake startles a laugh from her.

"What?" demands the girl, offended, and she snatches her hand back as she pouts.

"Nothing," Lottie says. "Do you know the orphanage, Georgiana?"

The little girl nods. "I've met some of the children there," she says at length. "They say the lady is real nice."

"She is," Lottie says. "I'm very close friends with her. Would you like to meet her?"

* * *

Lottie is bombarded by shouts as she leads Georgiana through the gate and after she closes it behind her, little hands grasp at her and hug her, bodies that stand no taller than her waist. Georgiana stands off to the side and Lottie can see the discomfort plainly on her face, the confusion.

Ethan grasps her hand and leads her into the house, to Millie, while Daniel's little hand clutches the back of her coat, holding onto her as though he's afraid she'll disappear again.

"Miss Millie," Ethan shouts and Lottie looks quickly over her shoulder to check Georgiana is still following. Millie glances up from the table, where she's mending a small shirt. Her face loses its concentrating frown when she sees Lottie. "Look! Look!"

"Yes," says Millie, getting to her feet and pulling Lottie into a hug. "I can see her, Ethan."

Lottie places a hand gently on Georgiana's shoulder as Millie shoos the other children from the kitchen, saying mildly, "You'll have plenty time to see her later. Off with you!"

Georgiana presses herself close to Lottie, and hides her face when Millie turns her kind eyes to her.

"Who's this then?" asks Lottie's friend and Georgiana proudly shows her face again, giving her the same defiant chin lift Lottie had received.

"Georgiana," says the little girl and then, before Millie can say anything else, "My parents are gone."

Millie's expression softens. Lottie watches her eyes as they look over the little girl, taking in the dirt marks and scraped palms and knees, the dark smudges on her cheeks. She bustles to the sink while Lottie guides Georgiana to a seat at the table and Lottie doesn't sit until Millie returns with a damp washcloth – the _same_ washcloth, Lottie notes, and out of everything that's been fixed and replaced in this place, why hasn't Jacob given Millie new bloody washcloths? – and starts to carefully clean at Georgiana's marks.

The little girl looks disgruntled and annoyed and consistently leans away from Millie, trying in vain to avoid the inevitable.

"We'll get you cleaned up," Millie says, "and you'll have a warm bed and you'll be well looked after. I promise you that, dear."

"I have a bed," Georgiana says stubbornly. "I don't need anyone's pity."

"The streets aren't a bed, Georgiana," Lottie says firmly.

"I don't sleep on the streets," retorts the little girl furiously.

Losing her patience, Lottie snaps, "Then where do you sleep?"

Georgiana folds her arms across her chest and stubbornly remains silent while Millie finishes wiping her face. At the doorway, Bethany hovers, peering in curiously and staring at the little red haired girl. Lottie waves her in and accepts the hug the little girl grants her.

"Georgiana," Lottie says, her tone softer and her temper back in check. "This is Bethany. Bethany will you keep Georgiana company while I talk to Millie?"

Millie waits until they're alone and then she embraces Lottie tightly, again, and Lottie is reminded of being a little girl all over again, in the very same way she had felt when Millie had come to her after everything. Lottie returns it as tightly as she possibly can, glad for the woman's comfort and presence at her side once more. They break apart slowly and settle into the chairs at the table, and Lottie hopes Millie remains in an amiable mood after she explains everything.

Lottie hopes Millie will _let_ her explain everything.

"I've been thinking," Lottie starts, after the small talk is out the way with, after she gauges Millie's mood.

The other woman leans back in her chair, smirking. "Dangerous," she comments lightly and she barely reacts when Lottie narrows her eyes at her playfully. She gestures with her hand. "Go on."

"The Blighters hold on London has weakened considerably," she says, "and I've been..." She hesitates and then, around a bashful smile, "I've learned my lesson and this time I'd like your permission."

"My permission?" echoes Millie suspiciously. "Charlotte Crawley, what are you up to?"

"I'd like to take Daniel from the orphanage," Lottie reveals at length, "and a couple of other children. I'd like to train them as assassins for the Brotherhood."

And at Millie's stunned silence, Lottie starts to explain her plan, the risks and dangers, the training, the idea that none of them would take a life until their sixteenth birthday, that none would make Master Assassin until at least their twentieth, that _none_ would be forced to remain in this life should they choose to leave it.

"We're close to liberating London, Millie," Lottie says, and she reaches forward to take Millie's hand, "and we can rebuild the Brotherhood without the danger of the Templars. But we need initiates to do so."

Millie frowns and wrings the damp washcloth in her hands. The action is so familiar that it settles some of Lottie's frazzled nerves.

"I don't know, Lottie," she says softly. "That's a dangerous life for children."

Lottie's lips quirk upwards in a smile. "I turned out alright, didn't I?"

"Well for a while you did have me worried," says Millie. Her eyes meet Lottie's. "But yes. I suppose you did turn out alright." She pauses. "Better than alright."

She starts to ask questions; who will train them? Where will they stay? Can they visit? Can _she_ visit? Will they be safe?

"I'll protect them, Millie," Lottie tells her sincerely and while she remembers the last time she had said the same words – desperate and frantic, unwilling to lose her friend and afraid that it was going to happen anyway – this time she _means_ it. This time there's no ulterior motive, no loss for the Rooks, only a legacy Lottie wants to rebuild and protect, and a willingness to be patient and protective.

Millie squeezes Lottie's hand. "What's brought this on?"

Lottie says, "I laid my father to rest yesterday," and nothing else.

Millie appears scandalised. "Why didn't you say you daft clot!" Her words are followed by a gentle frown and an exhausted sigh. "My dear girl, I should have been there with you."

Lottie shakes her head. "Please, don't... It wasn't..." She swallows the lump that burns in her throat and blinks away tears that she's promised she won't cry anymore. "This is what I have to do. To make him proud of me."

"Oh, Lottie..."

Lottie shakes her head and clears her throat. "I understand if you decide that you don't want this –"

Millie holds up a hand and Lottie's voice catches in her throat. Millie looks considerate while still nervous, fidgeting and tearing at the washcloth, and it's another few minutes before she sets it down on the table. Her hands shake instead and she doesn't look at Lottie until she's set them flat on the table.

"I can't protect them forever," she whispers, as if she's afraid of the words. The laugh that follows is soft and heartbroken and her voice breaks. "Why not make reality what games they already play?"

* * *

Evie is delighted and Bethany is eager to learn and Lottie watches from afar as the Rooks accept this new change with very little disturbance. Ethan is nicknamed _Little Rook_ and the green jacket that's been thrown over his shoulders swamps him, the sleeves rolled back for his hands to poke through, like overly large bracelets. They ruffle Daniel's hair and listen to his quiet stories; Bonny reminisces about the little boy sitting on the table with the quiet voice, the same little boy who'd boldly charged into a packed bar of drunken delinquents in search of Lottie.

Daniel blushes, his cheeks turning a dark crimson, and Lottie hopes that he'll still have that endearing quality in twenty years' time.

_The life of an assassin is suffering_ , _Lottie_ , her father told her once, _we suffer so others don't have to_.

_Then let me suffer to save him from that_ , she thinks. _I would suffer a thousand times over to protect these precious children_.

Eliza, a Rook with golden hair so beautiful that Lottie thinks she doesn't belong in a gang, braids Bethany's hair and tells her all about the fight for London, about the Blighters slowly turning tail and fleeing, or turning in their red coats for green. Georgiana sits on the window seat, clutching a fluffy cushion to her chest and watching the men and women around her with wide eyes. She doesn't have the look of childlike innocence that Lottie sees on Bethany and Ethan and Daniel; Georgiana has already suffered and Lottie wishes more than anything in the world that she could take that from her.

"I thought about bringing Clara into the fold as well," Evie says after a moment of silence, standing next to Lottie and watching the scene before them. There's a hint of a smile on the other woman's lips and a twinkle in her eye that Lottie hasn't seen for a while. "She's already piecing it all together. She'd make an excellent assassin."

"I agree," Lottie replies. "We have plenty of rooms and plenty of space. I think she'd like it here."

Evie's smile falters and her eyes turn guarded once more. "Are you sure you know what you're doing, Lottie?" She turns to face her fully and their conversation is far too serious and careful for the atmosphere of the room. "The lives we lead, Lottie, are not to be entered lightly. Nor is the decision to bring someone into it."

"They'll have the choice," Lottie insists but the words shake and it's hard to talk past the lump in her throat. "It's more than either of us had."

In ten years, Lottie thinks, Ethan and Bethany and Daniel and Georgiana will be nearly grown and their lives will be before them; leave the assassins and face no judgment for the choice, or take a first target and end their lives, and complete their initiation.

In ten years, they will have the choice to join the assassins and to take part in a centuries old war.

Evie nods but anything else she might have said is interrupted by the door banging open, by Jacob Frye storming into the room, covered in soot and dirt and scowling as he passes. The laughter and talk has waned and even Evie doesn't think to throw a comment to her brother. Lottie watches him pass through the Rooks, watches him disappear into hallway and towards the kitchen, and Evie's hand brushes Lottie's arm.

"Go after him," she says, because Evie and Jacob are still family, Lottie thinks, even if things are hard between them right now. "He needs someone."

The conversations rise in volume as soon as the Rooks see Lottie following, determination in every step and confused concern on her features.

She finds him slumped in a chaise at the back of the house, nursing a whiskey bottle that used to be Lottie's own friend in her time of need, and glaring into the dying embers of the fireplace. He doesn't look up or otherwise acknowledge her as she thought he might and Lottie's struck suddenly by the thought that this must be how he feels whenever she's been broken or angry or sad; this is how it feels to be on the outside looking in.

"Jacob?"

Her voice is soft in the dark of the room and the orange glow from the embers before him does nothing to open his thoughts to her. He takes a long swig of the bottle in his hand but otherwise makes no move. She crosses the room slowly and reaches for his shoulder, reaches for him to try and comfort him, to console him.

He flinches from her touch.

"Please go," he says, and the words sound strangled and strained. Lottie's reminded of herself, of Jacob only trying to help and her bitter and cold words; _leave me alone_.

"What happened?" she says instead, standing before him, trying to get him to look at her.

"Nothing," he tells her, but this time he's defensive and the beginnings of anger lace his tone. "I just want to be alone."

She tries to keep her voice light. "I know from personal experience that _that_ doesn't help."

"I don't care, Lottie," he snaps next and she recoils, startled. His temper hasn't been directed at her for a long time.

She swallows. "Things with Roth didn't go well, I take it?"

She doesn't miss the flinch at the mention of the man. His lip curls and the whiskey inside the bottle sloshes as he draws it to his lips once more, furiously and eagerly.

"No," he says, at length. "They did not."

She's hesitant to ask because she doesn't like his mood and now she knows for sure that this must be how she is when things get rough, how she _was_ after everything. He still won't look at her and he rolls the bottle in his hand against his leg, watches the liquid rather than her.

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter," he snaps and then, an echo of the words he had told her long ago, after he'd assassinated Pearl Attaway and she'd told him her truth for a truth. "Good partnerships never last."

She swallows. "I don't believe that."

"Don't you?" His voice is scathing and disparaging at once. "Ours didn't either."

"Jacob –"

"You _left_ ," he thunders suddenly and Lottie's not so sure it's the drink talking but his own pain, buried under and turned raw with whiskey. "You left and you nearly died, everyone around me dies!"

Astounded and feeling her back rising as she becomes cornered, Lottie's voice is loud and waspish, "Everyone around me dies too! There's barely a man or woman I love left standing beside me, Jacob!" He has no words for her but she sees his scowl. Softer, she adds, " _I_ didn't die, Jacob."

_Because of you_ , she nearly says, _I didn't die because of you_ , but they go unsaid in the room that's turning cold and colder.

_Suffering_ , her father says, and she feels like a little girl again, sobbing into his shirt that didn't smell the same after her mother died. _We suffer so others don't have to_.

"I need..." he pauses and she watches him take another drink, an action so familiar to her that she doesn't understand why the words burn the way they do. "I need time. To think."

_Oh_ , she thinks, _so this is what this feels like_.

Lottie's always been the one doing the rejecting, even before Jacob. She's had many a suitor, way back when, in her pale pink dresses with the lace. None of them had she deemed good enough for her and many of them she'd scorned and mocked.

She doesn't quite know how to feel about this one.

"Oh," she says aloud, her voice a whisper. Jacob has turned his back on her, his broad frame silhouetted by the dying light. "Oh."

Every step she takes is slow and unsure and she's not ashamed to admit that she's waiting for him to change his mind, waiting for him to call her name and tell her to wait, that he's changed his mind. It never happens and Lottie's left with the cold realisation that he might have been thinking the same thing when she'd angrily told him to leave her so many times.

_I need time_ , she remembers telling him so long ago, when everything between them was upside down and sideways.

_I've given you a month_ , he'd replied and his confusion had been staggering and endearing all at once.

_How long will you need_? She thinks because she's not sure if she can manage without his support, without him by her side. _Can I do this_?

She must, this she knows. Lottie made this choice alone, Lottie went to Millie _alone_ , and now she must go on _alone_.

_We suffer_ , she thinks. _I must suffer this alone_.


	31. A Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie tries to talk to Jacob and Crawford Starrick falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I'm really no good at fight scenes - at all. second last chapter though; enjoy! x

She finds a friend in Henry Green, the two of them scorned and scolded and alone and surrounded by children who want to learn.

He had come to her in the middle of the night, walking slowly through the door of the house and into the kitchen where she sat, staring at nothing and never realising that her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks tear-stained. He limped, cringing with every step, and on his skin was the beginnings of a nasty bruise, the throbbing red a familiar sight to her.

"She is right," Henry had told her, while Lottie dabbed at his lip with a wet washcloth. "I am not cut out for fieldwork. She will be more efficient without me."

 _You're a fool if you believe that_ , Lottie had thought, but she'd kept her mouth shut. She's in no place to talk, was in no place to tell Henry that he should have given Evie a _what-for_. Lottie hadn't stopped crying for what felt like days, always feeling like she had herself together and then forgetting herself at night.

Jacob hasn't come to see her and the room that had become his has been unoccupied for two weeks.

She nurses a mug of soup that's long gone cold, keeping an eye on their initiates and their wooden swords, keeping her thoughts to herself and allowing the children this small moment of peace. There's much they need to learn before they can learn to fight, she thinks, much to read and much to acknowledge, but there's still time for that. She meditates on her misfortune; that whatever had gone wrong between Roth and Jacob would happen now, when she needed him. She ruminates on Henry and Evie's misfortune, that the problems between them had to happen now.

Lottie and Henry realise and accept that they're not the best fighters. Henry is too gentle a soul, too pacifying, and Lottie has too much pain and suffering to work through before she can consider taking another life. Evie and Jacob are the Mentors the children need but neither of them have been back to the house since Jacob stormed through the Rooks and into the backroom with his whiskey bottle.

"They have yet to leave the train," Henry says as he approaches. He settles heavily in the cushions next to her, and stares straight ahead with her, at Ethan and Daniel and their clashing wooden swords, at Georgiana testing the weight of her own and swinging it experimentally, at Bethany, holding the light wood far from her and looking troubled by it.

Lottie sets her cold mug on the coffee table before her.

"The Rooks say Jacob's temper..." she trails off and shakes her head. "Something is going to happen, Mr Green."

"Starrick is making his final moves," Henry confides, "and the Frye's are too interested in squabbling with each other to take notice."

"You should force the issue," Lottie says. "They'll listen to you."

"Will they?"

"More than me."

They fall into companionable silence. Across the courtyard, Georgiana enters the duel between Daniel and Ethan, fending the two off well but stumbling backwards when the two boys join forces against her. Lottie huffs a laugh, watching the scene with wry amusement as Georgiana parries and strikes and gains bruises for her attempts.

"Together," Henry says at last, the single word breaking their silence. "We should go together."

Lottie hasn't been back to the train in months. Thinking of it, of what she had come to consider a make-shift home for herself, reminds her only of the circumstances that led her to leave, of words thrown like knives and hurting just as much. She'd been angry and lost and misguided and he'd been hurt and confused and their words had nearly ruined everything.

But surely if he wanted to see her he would have by now?

"I can't," she says, her voice just over a whisper. "He needs time."

He'd given her a month, she remembers, when their situations had been reversed, and it's been only two weeks and she wants to seek him out, to feel his touch again, his lips on hers. Things had been different for him, she thinks, because they'd only just met and all there was between them was interest. She was lonely, she thinks, and he saw in her an ally. They could help each other.

"We can't afford distractions," Henry urges, getting to his feet quickly. He knocks into the coffee table, knocks over the mug of cold soup Lottie had set upon its surface. She barely moves. "Even now Starrick could be perfecting his plans to obtain the Shroud."

 _The Shroud of Eden_ , Lottie thinks. _Immortal life to the wearer._

She's tried not to think about it, tried not to think about the fact that if she had been with the assassin's sooner, they might have found it long ago. She might have found it and been able to use it to save her father. He might still be alive if she had joined the fight.

"I'm sure they'll –"

"Charlotte," Henry says. He doesn't say anything else and he doesn't need to.

The children have stopped their fighting, having turned their attention to Lottie and Henry when the mug had been spilled. She sighs heavily.

* * *

They're shouting, angry and barbed words that Lottie can feel coming to a crescendo when she walks through the door. Henry had gotten there before her and Lottie had done everything she could think of to prolong her walk to the station, to try and convince herself that this isn't a good idea.

Somehow she still finds herself stepping onto the train before it can leave, steeling her spine and readying herself to stand with Henry. He turns to her when she rounds the corner, stepping through the open door and ignoring the hopeful looks upon the faces of the Rooks in the dining car. She doesn't like the pressure those looks bring with them and dislikes even more the insinuation that these arguments have been building and building.

Lottie had known they were frequent, but she hadn't expected this.

She arrives in time for Jacob's voice to rise, louder than she's ever heard, and she recognises the feelings, can hear it in his words; she feels the pain he's experiencing, has felt it for almost a year now, the burning anger and resentment, the guilt.

" _FATHER IS DEAD_!"

It's an outburst she hasn't had, has no one to say it to like that anyway. Jacob and Evie have each other but Lottie knows that their arrival in London has prolonged any discussions of their father and even her words with Jacob about him have been clipped and brief, said in a drunken stupor or in a haze of lust.

Lottie can't say anything. She's thinking that it would have been best if she'd simply turned and left, if she had never come here at all, when Henry steps forward and takes matters into his own hands. He was the Ghost of London once, after all, she thinks, and he still knows the Templar Grand Master well. Despite any uneasiness between himself and Evie, Henry has taken the lead once more and has become every inch the man Lottie's father had told her to find if ever she needed to.

Jacob's eyes dart to Lottie as he turns, fleetingly, but Lottie sees the flicker there, discomfort or pain or guilt, she can't tell, but they're all emotions that are left over from his outburst anyway and she daren't consider that she might be the cause of them too.

"Starrick plans to steal the Piece of Eden and eliminate all the heads of church and state," Henry says sternly and there's a beat of silence, a couple of nods from Jacob.

 _Tonight_ , Lottie thinks, _at the Palace Ball._

She's seen Starrick in person, his calm hostility, and she can remember clearly the fear that had struck into her. She doesn't want to voice her opinion, doesn't want to force Jacob's hand, but Lottie's sure that without him, any plans they come up with will likely fail.

Evie's methodical, Lottie thinks, but if her plans were to fail in the presence of Starrick, he would kill her without hesitation. She needs Jacob there, needs his quick-thinking, or everything could go wrong.

"One more time," says Jacob softly and Lottie almost thinks he sounds sad, "for old times' sake?"

Evie's retort is an angry whisper, "And then we're finished."

Seeing them like this, Lottie finds it hard to imagine that they'd ever been able to work together. They're family, she knows, and tensions rise between blood, but since she's known them, they've only complained about each other, and only cared for each other out of earshot of the other. She's sure that siblings shouldn't be so hostile towards one another.

Should they?

"Agreed," says Jacob, just as softly, more angrily. "So what's the plan?"

* * *

Lottie dares to find him after, when the train is quiet and the Prime Minister and his wife have long since departed. She hadn't had the strength to show her face to Mrs Disraeli, hadn't wanted to face the questions, the knowing stare the woman would no doubt give her. There's no fleas on that woman, Lottie knows, and she would have been able to tell immediately that things were not the same as they once were between Lottie and Jacob, and no doubt would have mentioned it.

Jacob is hunched over a bottle in the half-empty dining car, and nostalgia hits her; she remembers nightmares of clawed hands that woke her gasping from sleep, remembers drinking with Jack and Bonny, remembers being drunk and Jacob's strong hands on her arms.

His lips are turned down in a frown and his brows are furrowed and all of his attention is fixed on the half-empty bottle in front of him.

Lottie slides onto the stool next to him and quips, "Liquid courage, is it?"

"You'd know all about that," he says.

And she does know about it, he's not wrong at all, but the statement makes any retort she might have come up with catch in her throat. She reaches for the bottle, like he has done for her so many times, and grasps it by the neck. Jacob lets her take it without a fight, so different from the way she used to grumble and complain, and Lottie takes a quick swig and nearly chokes.

It burns on the way down, in a way Lottie remembers used to be familiar to her and comforting. Now it's about as comforting a lying on a bed of nails and she sets the bottle down and pushes it away with a grimace.

Jacob notices. "What?" he demands. "Too strong?"

She shakes her head, dismissing the bite in his tone. It's the same brand she used to drink, exactly the same, but too much has changed for her to consider drinking as much as she used to. Lottie won't _let_ herself drink into a stupor anymore, _not anymore_. There's more important things to be done now.

"No," she replies easily, "I just find I've not the taste for it anymore."

Jacob scoffs. "Then hand it back, love, will you?"

"No."

There was a time the endearment would have made her heart skip a beat, a time when it would have brought a flush to her cheeks and a nervous shaking to her hands while her stomach fluttered with butterflies. Now she watches him coldly, remembering clearly the feeling and knowing that she might still feel it again, when things are different and London is safe. She's not in love with Jacob, not yet, but she thinks she might be someday.

Could he return her affections?

Lottie's had a lot of time to ruminate on their relationship, professional and personal. She wants to say that it was more than lust on both of their parts but the reality is that _that_ isn't true; Mrs Disraeli had told her that her home would become a person and Lottie's still homeless and wandering, still searching for her place to belong.

Lottie knows that the interest was aesthetic on both their parts; she was drawn to the ruthless and impetuous assassin, the intimidating gang leader with the resources she needed to find her father's murderer and destroy him. She thinks Jacob was drawn to her rage, to the mystery that surrounded her and the vengeance that drove her.

They don't know much else about each other she thinks; he doesn't know her favourite colour or her favourite food just like she doesn't know his. It could be green, she ponders, thinking of the Rooks jackets and the colour of their symbol, the jade green of his waistcoat, but then it could be red, dark like the blood that he delights in spilling.

Everything happened too quickly for them to really know one another and things continue to escalate and draw their attention. How can she ask him such frivolous questions when Starrick moves against them at that very moment?

Jacob pushes off the bar and starts to get to his feet. "Fine," he huffs, "I'll just get another."

 _So stubborn_ , Lottie thinks, and she can see herself. Is this how he felt when she went on a bender? Is this how he felt returning to the train and finding her drowning her elusive demons?

"No, you won't," Lottie tells him firmly, and she sounds like Evie and her father; the thought might have startled her months ago, a year ago, but now it's followed only by acceptance. She's her father's daughter and that is not a bad thing.

 _We endure_ , she thinks, the best advice he's ever given her, advice she knows she will one day pass on to her students, to her initiates.

"Won't I?" Jacob fires back and his stare is challenging. He doesn't give her the chance to say anything else. "Doesn't matter. I'm leaving."

Lottie's not willing to let him leave so soon, not now that she remembers what it feels like to be in his presence. The first real conversation they've had in weeks, months maybe, the first conversation where Lottie feels _ordinary_ again, where Lottie feels herself – the young woman with the gossip and the teas and the weapons and ideals of her father – and it's over too soon.

"Do you need any help?" she finds herself asking, desperately wishing he'll turn and look at her again, that he'll look at her before he leaves.

 _He needs time_ , she remembers herself telling Henry earlier, _he needs time_.

But now that she's here she doesn't want him to have it.

 _Did he feel like this_ , she wonders _, all those months ago_?

"No," Jacob tells her, stunningly sharply. "I can manage."

"Alright," she says softly to his back and her heart lurches as he leaves without looking at her.

* * *

"Eliza said Roth wanted to blow up some house," Bonny tells her later, in the quiet of the house. "There were children inside."

Lottie's initiates have retired for the night and Henry idles in the doorway, looking agitated and fidgety, and Lottie doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker constantly to her, and to the door. She doesn't blame him for being nervous because she feels the same; Evie and Jacob will be neck deep in the danger surrounding Buckingham Palace now, in the danger of Crawford Starrick.

Lottie had gotten back from the train and immediately strapped her gauntlet onto her arm, the reason why still unknown to her, and she fingers the leather now as she ponders Bonny's words.

"What happened after?" she asks, trying to put the puzzles pieces together, trying to understand Jacob's mood and actions.

"Roth invited him to the Alhambra," Bonny says. "Set it ablaze with the audience and the Boss inside."

Lottie recalls the soot that darkened his clothes when he stormed in that night, the darkness around him as he'd passed everyone without a word. Something else happened in the Alhambra, Lottie thinks, something Jacob isn't telling anyone.

All she can do is nod, frowning at the worn leather on her wrist and feeling no closer to the truth. Bonny leaves shortly after to find a stiff drink and Henry crosses the room, back and forth, a white blur on the corner of her vision.

"The carpet's new," Lottie quips and Henry stills in place, one foot off the floor and paused in movement.

"I don't like this," he admits. "I don't like being here while Evie and-"

He doesn't like Evie being in danger, Lottie thinks, and it's adorable and understandable. Lottie knows Jacob is more than capable of handling himself in a fight and she knows Evie's plans are always perfect and concise; the twins match each other perfectly. Evie can handle the secrecy and Jacob can handle the danger but this is no ordinary mission.

 _This_ is Crawford Starrick and he is no ordinary opponent.

"I don't like it either," Lottie admits reluctantly. She knows what Evie would want of them; stay here, in case things turn sour and they become London's last hope. Lottie knows Jacob wouldn't want her there, wouldn't want the distraction she would provide. She's not at full strength, still bothered by wounds almost healed, but she's plagued by thoughts of _what if_.

 _What if they fail? What if Starrick gets the Shroud, what then? What if he destroys the Brotherhood and we sat here and did nothing_?

"Evie would want us to listen," Lottie says. "Stick to the mission."

Henry nods sagely but she can see clearly on his face the thoughts that haunt her own mind. Bonny returns, in her hand a glance of amber fluid that she swirls idly about the glass. She takes one look at Henry and Lottie and doesn't say a word. She doesn't need to.

Lottie swallows and if she sounds unsure she doesn't care. "I suppose sneaking into the Palace gardens wouldn't be the end of the world...?"

Henry nods, much more eagerly. "Just in case," he agrees.

Lottie looks to Bonny and finds her friend nodding too, smiling and supportive already.

"I'll look after them," she says immediately, before Lottie's question and favour can leave her mouth.

"Thank you," she murmurs, standing quickly and following Henry from the house.

* * *

They arrive at the gates in time for the explosion, a needed distraction that lets them slip into the grounds of Buckingham Palace unnoticed, and the large black cloud that rises high and ominous over them tells them immediately where they need to go.

It originates from a small stretch of land in the middle of a lake and Lottie's eyes are first drawn to the crowd in front of the Palace, at the figure in black she can see being quickly escorted away by guards in red, before Henry is plunging into the water. All pretences are gone, the shouting from the Blighters loitering around the entryway to the vault forgotten, and Henry and Lottie are not trying to be quiet in the face of this.

They're not paying the entryway any attention and it's not until Henry and Lottie stumble against the stone and scramble down the steps that they realise the two assassins were there at all. They shout after them, angry shouts that taper off into silence the further Henry and Lottie run down the tunnel, and for all Lottie was expecting, it's not this.

She's assaulted by bright lights and gold as the tunnel opens into a wide expanse of room, the walls cold stone and three lone figures at the other end, locked in a vicious battle. Barriers of gold sprout between them, blocking their path, hums of power vibrate through the floors and walls and just when Lottie thinks she's found a path to Jacob and Evie and _Starrick_ , another stretch of gold, of _pure power_ , springs up before her, each too quick for her to predict.

"Split up," Lottie says, as Henry starts, "We need to go round –"

He goes right and she goes left, launching herself to the pathway overhead while Henry uses the stone pillars on the floor to hide himself. She has to move quick, has to _be_ quick, but every quick movement, every struggled pant of breath reminds her of old aches, and before she can make any move she has to stop, clutching at the pillar to her right and trying to catch her breath.

Her eyes flicker to the ground, where Henry is ready to make his move and where Starrick as the Frye's by the throat. Her breath catches and Jacob's name is on her lips; a whisper is all she manages as Henry throws his Kukri, as it lodges in Starrick's shoulder.

She watches from above, heart pounding against her rib cage, as Starrick throws Evie aside, carelessly, and Lottie watches Evie collide with the wall and crumble. Lottie almost feels Evie's pain as if it's her own and her eyes turn back to Starrick, to the golden shawl over his shoulders; the Shroud of Eden. He appears unhurt, _impossible_ , Lottie knows, because she's heard the sound of blades on flesh, and there's blood on his clothes but no sign of him faltering.

Henry shouts Evie's name and Starrick throws Jacob aside now as well, turning his attention to Henry, charging him recklessly. Lottie's eyes flit briefly to Jacob, pulling himself to his feet, and then to Henry and Starrick, exchanging blows. Henry's hidden blade slices the length of Starrick's body, from his hip to his shoulder, but other than appearing winded from the quickness of the Indian assassin's attack, Starrick seems unaffected.

Still out of breath and aching, Lottie hops from her perch, unsheathing her hidden blade and plunging it into Starrick's neck.

Lottie stumbles back, standing by Henry and watching warily, wanting to feel triumphant but unable to tear her eyes away from the Grand Master, and she feels like the world has fallen from her feet as Starrick pulls himself up.

Horrified, Lottie sees the wound on his neck closing, the skin unblemished and nothing but the still wet and warm blood on his neck to show that she'd struck him at all.

Terror engulfs her, clogs her throat and freezes her limbs, and it's then, as Starrick opens his arms and invites them to attack, that Lottie realises the man is unarmed.

 _The audacity_ , she thinks distractedly, _the confidence to believe he wouldn't need them_.

He wouldn't have been able to take them into the Palace, the logical part of her thinks, but Evie and Jacob smuggled theirs in, knowing they would need them. Starrick believed wholeheartedly that he wouldn't need them, that the Shroud would be his, and so hasn't bothered.

Henry lunges first, hidden blade catching the golden lights around them, and Lottie follows, dismayed and distracted, disheartened that every strike she manages to make is countered or forgotten. She hears her name being shouted from behind her and sees it all in slow motion; Henry backhanded and launched over the stone table behind the Grand Master, landing hard on the stone and not moving.

She chokes out Henry's name, wants to go to him, and a grip like iron grasps her neck and lifts her from the ground. Her strength wanes as the Shroud steals her life and Jacob shouts her name again but she can't hear anything save her heart thundering in her ears and Starrick's words as he pulls her closer to him.

He snarls, "Do you feel like you're winning the war _now_ , Miss Crawley?"

Desperate, she lifts her arm and strikes again, catching his cheek with her hidden blade and being dropped to her feet just as Jacob's Kukri catches Starrick in the side. Jacob's assaults are fast and furious; the side, the chest, the stomach and Lottie can _see_ it – his strength is waning. For all the power the Shroud gives him, he still needs to rest and that is one thing they will not let him do.

Jacob ducks a wild punch by Starrick and strikes at his thigh, his Kukri stabbing into the flesh of the man's thigh harshly. While Jacob dislodges the blade, Lottie attacks Starrick's other side, her coat soaked in the man's blood and her blade drenched in it, and Starrick manages to force Jacob back just enough to strike at her.

Her breath leaves her in a rush as Starrick's fist connects with her stomach, with a stab wound there not fully healed and Lottie stumbles back, a shout of agony leaving her lips and gasping for air around the pain. Starrick grabs her and Jacob shouts and her back connects with stone after he tosses her aside so easily as if she were nothing at all.

She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling and nearly sobbing in pain, and her world narrows; she can hear things around her as if through water, voices shouting and blades connecting with flesh, and her own breath, slow and steadying as she rolls onto her side to better see what's happening.

What she sees is what she never thought she would; Jacob and Evie, attacking together, working harmoniously and to each other's strengths, and destroying the Grand Master of the Templar Order. Lottie finds satisfaction in the same way she found satisfaction in Jacob destroying Victor Lynch; Starrick ordered her father and herself murdered and Lottie has the Frye's to thank for avenging them both.

Starrick stumbles backwards, the Shroud cut from his shoulders, defenceless without it, and weakened because of it. He gasps for breath like Lottie did and Lottie pushes herself to her knees, clutching at her stomach, as the twins strike together, ending his life.

Lottie doesn't hear Starrick's last words, quietly said as they are to the Frye's alone, but she's recovered enough to eavesdrop on some of the warm words shared between Jacob and Evie, so different to what Lottie has grown used to as she's known them. She cradles her wounds and leans against the stone, wincing with every inhale and exhale.

She listens to light-hearted jibes about the Shroud, about Evie wearing it, about Jacob wearing it, and honest observations Lottie knows Jacob would never have admitted to months ago when the twins couldn't look at each other without fighting.

"Will you wear it?" Evie asks, genuine and curious, and Lottie waits with baited breath for Jacob's answer, imagining; the Shroud takes from others what it gives, she knows, and she remembers vividly the feeling of her life being taken from her when Starrick held her by the throat. It would be no different if Jacob were to wear it.

"After you sorted out the boroughs? The chaos I caused?" Jacob pauses and shakes his head, and his foot brushes the golden fabric that glitters on the stone floor. "I couldn't compete."

Evie's smile is mischievous; a smile Lottie has only seen glimpses of over the past year. "Jacob Frye stepping back. Who's blackmailing you? Is it George?"

"He wouldn't dare," Jacob comments with a grin. He adds, softer, "I've missed you."

"Me too," she returns just as earnestly and with a gentle smile, "would it be possible to continue where we left off?"

"I'd love nothing more."

The silence following their words is broken by Henry, sitting up and groaning, and Lottie follows his lead, pushing off the wall behind her with deep and steady breaths, forcing herself to her feet. She hears their words but doesn't listen, fingers clawed against the stone as she stands and she doesn't realise her name has been said until his hands are on her arms and he's helping her.

"Lottie," Jacob says softly, and when she looks at him he's close to her, closer than he has been in a long time, and there's blood on his cheek and his gloves, and his eyes are warm. He's full of concern again, like he was when he found her in that basement, like he was when he found her on the floor in the aftermath, and he's like she remembers again.

She meets his eyes

"Hello," she manages to say in a whisper and there's a fluttering in her stomach and a dusting of pink on her cheeks.

His lips quirk. "Feelin' alright, love?"

She thinks she knows what he's referring to; she remembers a fight club in the Foundry, Jacob Frye leaning against the wall idly and with a dark look in his eyes as they surveyed a target. She remembers feeling hot in the face as she looked at him, relaxed and so bloody attractive and nothing has changed at all even though it has.

"Better now," she replies, determinedly deciding that whatever it was that troubled him before, she will not bring it up. If he wants to talk about it, he will. She won't press.

It's the least she owes him.

"Good," he says, hushed as he leans forward, his nose brushing hers, their foreheads touching as he breathes, "I'm sorry."

Lottie closes her eyes, breathing him in. "It's forgotten."

He huffs a laugh. "For you maybe." He pauses. "I'll make it up to you."

"You don't have to," she's quick to reassure. Her voice turns teasing. "God knows I've had my fair share of tantrums."

He laughs, his breath warming her lips, and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her. He draws back only to peer worriedly at her stomach, and she knows he's remembering the hit Starrick landed on her, atop other wounds that still bother her. She still feels the ache when she breathes, still feels it in her bones, and she's dreading the climb out of this vault.

She tells him so, and he responds with a wry grin. "I'll carry you," he says, and she doesn't doubt it in the slightest.


	32. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie tries to be content.

Evie and Jacob clash on the best way to teach the initiates but inevitably the lessons begin anew and Lottie watches proudly as the children listen intently to Evie's soft voice and hide their giggles at Jacob's sarcastic comments.

She's still whirling from the events that happened after they emerged from the vault, from the Queen herself bestowing honours upon them – _Dame Charlotte Crawley_ , she thinks – and she can hardly believe it. Her father would be so proud of her, a Dame and a member of a secret order ( _another one at that_ ), trusted with missions the Queen will not give to anyone else in London. She's still not used to it, still waiting to wake up from this dream and this fortune that seems to have finally befallen her.

A ghost of a smile is on her lips – she thinks she might have finally made her father proud of her, might have finally redeemed herself in his eyes. All of her mistakes have led to this moment, she believes now, everything she's done has led to this, and while she believes she might have redeemed herself for her father, she still has a long way to go before _she_ believes it so.

"Dame Crawley," Jacob greets casually, settling beside her on the sofa, leaning back against the plush cushions oh, so invitingly. "You're thinking awfully hard."

"Sir Frye," she returns, though perhaps not as relaxed, "not as hard as all that."

"Are you sure?" he asks, and there's that knowing smirk on his face, the look that tells Lottie he's seeing right through her _again_.

She nods. "Quite."

Across the courtyard, Georgiana succeeds in disarming Ethan and Jacob shoots forward from the sofa, cursing loudly but amusedly at Ethan and the little boy only huffs in return, a quick learner to Jacob's teaching and encouraging methods. Lottie shakes her head and nods to Georgie, the little girl from the street with the fire in her hair and the will to learn and win. Lottie wishes she could say that she sees some of herself in the girl but it would be a lie if she did; she doesn't see anything of herself in Georgiana.

Georgie, the poor little girl, had nearly died only weeks after leaving her home and finding a place on the streets. Lottie had finally earned enough trust from Georgie that the little girl told her where she once lived; in the Strand, in a house made an example of in the reign of Victor Lynch, and Georgie had remained hidden in the ruins of her home until she couldn't anymore. Her parents were made examples of by the Blighters months ago, Georgie had said with tears in her eyes, the bodies dragged away for Lynch's experiments.

Lottie doesn't like thinking about Georgie in the ruins of an empty house, alone for months before she told herself it was time to leave.

_This is going to be her home now_ , Lottie thought with conviction. _We are going to be her family and this is going to be her home_.

It's the words Lottie has been telling herself since hearing the story, the same words that Lottie tells herself when she wakes from nightmares; there are no hands grasping for her anymore and she doesn't wake clawing at her throat and gasping for breath. Now her dreams are haunted by a faceless laugh and a whisper of _dear Lottie_ in her ear, while around her those she's grown to care about scream and shout her name and burn slowly to death as she tries to reach them.

Jacob had been the one to find her the first night she woke, sitting in the kitchen and staring at an unopened whiskey bottle. She'd told him she wasn't going to drink it, that she used it only as an anchor to stop her thoughts from straying. Jacob had taken her hand and pushed aside the bottle, called her _dear_ _Lottie_ and understood when she'd shaken her head and asked him not to call her that anymore.

Lynch has taken that from her and tainted it, like he's tainted so much else in her life.

Georgiana and Ethan begin their fight anew. Jacob takes her hand and returns to his slouch on the sofa, tugging her with him until she's pressed against his side, her head tucked under his chin. He breathes her in as she settles, watching the wooden swords in the hands of their students as they connect and smack, and Lottie thinks she's content.

* * *

Lottie's nightmares threaten her contentment and draw attention to the fact that perhaps it's all a lie that she's telling herself. She _wants_ to be content, wants to be happy with the aftermath of all that's happened, wants to be able to watch Jacob and Evie and Henry and the students and feel nothing but satisfaction.

Instead she still wakes in the night, gasping for breath that she can't inhale and clutching at sweat soaked sheets. She can still feel that knife in her stomach when she wakes, can still feel the daggers in her shoulder and thigh, and the burns that are healing litter her skin in wedges of pink.

It's hard for Lottie to feel content when the evidence of her struggles is plain on her skin, the pain still a phantom that haunts.

She runs her hands through her sweaty hair, the strands of blonde feeling wiry under her fingers, and slowly pushes aside the sheets. The carpet is soft under her bare feet and she misses its warmth when she steps onto the hard wood of the hall, forgoing her slippers for the need to feel something distracting.

The kitchen is suffocated in darkness but Lottie sees the figure curled up on one of the seats at the table. She wishes then more than ever that she was lucky enough to have the ability that graces the Frye family, the vision Jacob had mentioned to her sometimes; what she wouldn't give to be able to tell if she's in the presence of friend or foe.

_You are safe here_ , Lottie tells herself, padding quietly in the room, slipping into her assassin instincts. _This is your home now. You are safe_.

The figure startles when Lottie lights a candle, and she sees hair bright like the flickering orange of the flame, and hears quieting sniffles.

"Georgiana," Lottie murmurs. She sets the candle down gently and slides the chair from the table, reaching for the young girl as Georgiana wipes at her nose. "What's the matter, sweet?"

It's an endearment her mother often called her, something Lottie finds herself remembering more and more often now that she's truly alone, and if the word is often said from Lottie to Georgiana, she tries not to notice.

Georgiana shakes her head, clutching to the remnants of a stubborn coldness Lottie has been trying to chip away.

"Nothin'," she mumbles, but her voice is wobbly and she won't look at Lottie. "It's nothin'."

Lottie tries to think of Millie, what her friend would suggest, and tries to think of what Millie used to do in this situation when it was Lottie sitting across from her. Lottie used to go to Millie after her mother died, when her father threw himself into work until he could work through his grief. She would cry and cry but would never need to tell Millie what was wrong. It never mattered anyway – Millie always changed the subject.

Lottie clears her throat, her own worries of the night disappearing once more as they normally do when she wakes. It's becoming a pattern to her; she wakes in the night, terrified, and she sneaks into the kitchen to sit and think. Millie used to pour her a cup of tea.

Lottie busies herself with doing that now, words tumbling from her mouth to fill the silence.

"Mr Green is quite pleased with your progress," she says softly. "Evie says you are taking to her lessons like a duck to water."

Georgiana doesn't say anything for a breath, two, and then, "I... Miss Frye is _kind_ but..." she trails off and when Lottie sets the small china cup before her, her small hands busy themselves with the pattern of blue flowers. "Is she always so _strict_?"

"She wants you prepared," Lottie says, "that's all."

Where Jacob dismisses his father's teachings, Evie swears by them. While Lottie knows that Evie has come to see her father's lessons aren't the word of God, she still sees some worth in them and her firm belief of them appears to be a point of contention for Georgiana.

"Well," says Georgiana smartly, dipping her finger in her tea and pulling it back with a hiss. "Jacob wants us prepared too but he's not _preaching_ at us all day."

"Oh?" Lottie takes a delicate sip of her tea. "And how is he preparing you?"

"Teaching us to fight," Georgiana says. "He took us to a fight club the other night, y'see, and showed us all the ways to break a man's arm!"

Lottie nearly chokes on her tea.

She balks. "Jacob took you to a _fight club_?"

"Not just me," Georgiana defends quickly. "Ethan and Daniel were there too. Bethany didn't want to upset you and nothing Jacob could say would convince her to come –"

"Georgie," Lottie says, trying to remain calm but finding herself struggling, "fight clubs are dangerous."

"The Rooks were there," says the little girl, and she braves a swallow of her tea. "They were cheering on Jacob and looking after us."

The thought soothes her only slightly and Lottie makes a mental note to discuss Jacob's training methods with him later. She knows he means well – showing them the ways to disarm a man and break the bones in his body will be necessary if they take this life – but Lottie's sure there are other, _safer_ ways to teach them those lessons.

The irony is not lost on her – _safer_ ways, she thinks, as if they're not teaching children to become killers.

"What would you teach me, Miss Lottie?" Georgie asks suddenly, eagerly, and Lottie is thrown.

She's brought the initiates to the house, started to rebuild the Brotherhood, but has set herself aside in favour of more experienced assassins parting their wisdom on their young students. Now that the question has been asked, Lottie's not sure what her answer should be.

She's only officially been an assassin for a year, perhaps only a couple of months less than that, and has yet to form any of her own words of wisdom.

_Teach your own lessons_ , Jacob had told her so long ago, when Lottie had told him she was still trying to remember all her father taught her. Anything Lottie can teach them, Evie and Jacob have beaten her to it. Jonathan Crawley's lessons are not so easy to distinguish from who she is, who she has _become_. The lessons with the most impact on her life are irrelevant at this moment to Georgie.

"Patience," Lottie says eventually, after much thought, "but not at the cost of the mission."

Lottie's impatience has cost her respect within the Brotherhood once before and, worse than that, almost her _life_. If she has to impart any lessons on her students, Lottie thinks it should be the ones she has learned the hard way.

Jacob would argue with her, she thinks. Lottie would rather watch her target and ruminate on the best course of action. Jacob would act without thought and Evie would plan too much, both of their preferences too different but with perhaps the same dangerous outcome; costing the mission.

Lottie had watched Martin Church and learned everything about his routine, enough to act – she had, of course, acted too soon and cost herself some standing and respect – and had pursued Lynch with little care for his plans or for anything other than her vengeance – and had nearly died.

She takes a breath. "I'm still learning myself, in truth," she tells Georgiana. She bumps the small girl's arm. "Perhaps we can learn together?"

Georgiana grins. "Maybe I can become a better assassin than you," she says lightly.

Lottie huffs a quiet laugh. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Georgie."

The little girl's smile falters and Lottie recognises the far off look that comes to her eyes. Georgiana pushes aside the cup of tea before her, barely touched and still warm, and she looks troubled.

"Georgie?" Lottie tries cautiously.

The little girl's frown deepens. "My parents called me that," she says eventually. "They call me that in my dreams."

Lottie starts to piece the puzzle together. Georgie had been troubled before Lottie came here, huddled on the small and uncomfortable chair and in the dark – their situations seem to be similar, she realises.

Lottie swallows. "I have bad dreams too," she reveals quietly, finishing her tea.

Georgie's stare is hard when she meets Lottie's eyes and her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. "I can never save them," she says. "I keep running but I can never save them."

"Me either," Lottie says. She can still hear the whisper of _dear Lottie_ in her ear, can still feel the heat of the fires that ravage her friends and loved ones.

"I miss them," says the little girl and Lottie feels quite small and very lost.

"Me too."

Jacob had responded that way to her so long ago, the words said quietly between them with drink in her stomach and mourning in her mind. Georgiana looks ready to cry again, turning her tired eyes to a knot in the wood on the table. Lottie reaches for the little girl's hand, finding it cold and shaking.

"We endure," she murmurs, words said aloud that she never has before. She thinks them all the time, tells herself them when her day is tough and when she's faced with difficult choices and troubling consequences. She remembers them when she wakes from nightmares and when phantom pains bother her in the day. "We always endure."

"I don't have a family anymore," says Georgiana quietly, her bottom lip trembling and her hands clutching at Lottie.

"You do," Lottie says, because she knows now more than ever what this little girl needs; it's exactly what Lottie had needed almost a year ago, when her father was dead and she was completely alone. "You have the Brotherhood now, Georgie. You have me." She takes a deep breath, feels it hitch and catch in her throat, and draws Georgiana closer to her as the first of the tears start. "I'll be your family, Georgiana."

There's movement in the doorway, a tall figure peering in curiously and catching sight of them. Georgiana sobs in Lottie's shoulder as Jacob walks slowly into the room, frowning worriedly at the pair of them, and Lottie rubs circles gently and soothingly on the little girl's back, shushing her softly. Jacob takes a seat and Lottie thinks he's at a loss, wanting to help but not knowing how.

He doesn't speak until Georgiana has drifted off to sleep, curled up in Lottie's lap with her hands fisted in Lottie's nightgown.

"I heard you leave your room," he admits. "Usually you come back after a little while but this time..."

He was worried, Lottie thinks with some affection, and came to check on her. She nods towards the small girl hugging her tight and sleeping restfully.

"It appears I'm not the only one haunted," she whispers, careful not to disturb Georgiana.

"You won't always be," he replies softly. "I'll make sure of it."

A strand of Georgiana's brilliant red hair tickles Lottie's arm.

"A fight club, Jacob," she murmurs expectantly, giving him a pointed stare.

Jacob's grin is wry and crooked. "They learn fast," he tells her. "I had to stop Ethan from breaking Daniel's arm in the street when we left."

They share a hushed laugh and when Jacob reaches for Georgie, Lottie lets him. If the little girl had seemed small to Lottie, tucked in her arms, she seems smaller still against the broad shoulders of Jacob, carried in his strong arms and with her head tucked against his chest.

"Let's get you both to bed," he says gently, leaving no room for argument.

Georgiana's room is bare of any personal effects and Lottie promises herself she will change that; Georgie's memories of this place, of this home and her family, will be happy ones. She will have paintings and ornaments and anything else she wants that will all be _happy_.

Jacob tucks her in and shoos Lottie from the room, shutting the door softly behind him. She doesn't realise how tired she is until she's startled by a yawn and when Jacob pulls her close with an arm over her shoulders she goes willingly.

"I don't have to carry you too, do I?" he jokes lightly, guiding her to her room.

She hums. "No but you could tuck me in. You seem quite the expert."

He does one better. He helps her settle and scoots in beside her, teasing her lightly about her cold feet and tugging her close to his chest.

* * *

He says it in the twilight of the day, as the sun sets and the glow of orange fades, as the stars bedazzle and glitter in the sky. The Queen has dismissed them and Henry has asked for Evie's presence and the rooftop they've found themselves idling on is an unfamiliar one.

She's startled and thrown and unsure of how to respond but knowing that she wishes someday that she could.

"I love you."

He says it with the utmost surety and with the gentleness that's becoming more and more apparent now that London has been freed of the Templars' tyranny. He says it while she watches the stars, as the wind shifts her loose hair, and without flinching. He doesn't look away when her expression slackens with shock and as she tries to find words in her suddenly parched and dry mouth.

She can't say it back, not yet, and she's dismayed by the thought, fearful that it will ruin it all, but he's understanding and still so gentle, taking her hands and bending to meet her eyes.

"I know," he says, reading her like an open book, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, to her nose, to her jaw, to her forehead.

She wants to get better first and discover who she is without her vengeance, without her fury driving her actions. Jacob loves her, she thinks almost deliriously, and there's a nervous churning in her stomach that's never accompanied these kinds of declarations before, and already Lottie knows that this is different.

Other declarations of love and affection had been said to her because of Jonathan Crawley's money, because Lottie was a suitable courtier. Their declarations had been met with scorn and mockery by her and eventual dismissal from her home and presence.

Jacob's declaration is a statement of truth that she accepts as easily as breathing and while she can't say it back yet, Lottie can't think of anyone else in the world she wishes to say the words to.


	33. EPILOGUE - The Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new Crawley joins the fight.

Emmett doesn't find her until she reaches the train station.

She checking her weapons and adjusting her gauntlet, braiding her hair and pinning it at the base of her neck. There's a fog thick like soup around her, the perfect hunting ground if ever she saw one, and when Emmett tuts at her, there's already a knife in her hand and a scowl on her face.

Her brother – half-brother, she wants to correct, but really all that does is make her seem bitter, and Emmett is sweet and lovely, and she's lucky to count him as family – is every bit his father's son, all dark hair and eyes but with their mother's nose and cheekbones.

"Mother said we were to stay at home," he tells her knowingly.

She shrugs. "I can't stay here. Not after that letter."

Emmett hums. "You don't have to sneak away, Georgie," he says. "Mother would understand if you –"

"I've already tried to convince her," Georgiana insists, "but she wants to wait for Evie before sending me to help. I _can't_ wait that long. He's been missing for –"

"I know," Emmett cuts in and she hears the pain in his voice, cutting her like a knife. Jacob Frye is Emmett's father but not Georgie's, no matter how hard he tried to be. She wanted nothing more as a child than to accept it and she thinks she might have. Then his _true_ children were born and Georgie was left alone again, just as she was as a child, before her mother found her, before Charlotte Crawley _saved_ her.

_She's not a Crawley anymore_ , Georgie thinks, _she's a Frye_. _I am the last Crawley now_.

"The Ripper needs to be stopped," Georgie says earnestly. "If Jacob couldn't do it, what makes you think your aunt can?"

" _Our_ aunt, Georgie," Emmett says. "She loves you just as much as all of us."

And that's not a lie, Georgie knows, Evie loves her very much and while her mother has taught her much, Georgie has always believed Evie to be her favourite teacher. No one cried harder than she did when Evie left for India and decided to stay.

_We endure_ , her mother had told her, _we are Crawley's and we endure_.

Abberline's letter is in her pocket, lifted from her mother's desk before Georgie had made the decision to go to London. The letter that brought the awful news – Jacob Frye is missing and the Ripper's Terror continues. Her mother grieves and worries and Georgie doesn't want to believe her Mentor, her brother's father, is dead.

She won't believe it.

"I'm going to find him," Georgie tells Emmett, as the train comes round the corner, barely visible through the fog. Jacob told them he would see them soon, as soon as he could, and then he didn't.

He'd ruffled her hair and kissed her mother long and hard, words whispered between the two of them as Charlotte held him tightly. Georgie could only describe her mother's actions as desperate and fearful; they'd lost so many to the Ripper, so many friends that it hurts Georgie's heart to think about.

Bethany had been the worst, Georgie thinks, the poor, quiet girl who'd lost her life because she'd been too slow to react to the quickness of a once-brother. Jack had been too quick, too fast, and while Georgie can no longer see the young boy Jacob had brought to their order in the monster, she remembers him well. A young boy so eager to learn, so dedicated to the creed – to his end.

_No_ , Georgie thinks, remembering her mother and Jacob's angry words, their conversation said in the darkening parlour of the house in London. _He's not dedicated to our Creed but his own. A monster's creed_.

Georgie's going to see if his conviction to his creed is as strong as hers.

"We've lost too many people," she tells her half-brother. "I'm not going to let him take any more from us."

"Mother won't be happy," Emmett says, and Georgie's lips quirk; she's heard the stories of Charlotte Crawley in her youth, the beautiful blonde with the legendary rage.

"I know," she says, "but I'll already be in London when she finds out." She pauses. "Tell her I'll pass on her regards to Inspector Abberline."

Emmett sweeps her into a hug, one they haven't shared in a long time, and Georgie is reminded of that last hug her mother shared with Jacob before he sent them away; Emmett shares his father's desperation and fear and she clutches him just as tight as her mother had Jacob.

"You give that bastard hell; you hear?" Emmett says in her ear. "And you come home to us. You bring father home to us."

She closes her eyes and tells herself to remember this, to remember this feeling. She's going to protect her family, no matter the cost, protect them like her mother has all these years. She's going to remember her brother's arms around her, his warm embrace and the way he's protected her all these years without ever having to. She's going to remember this and she's going to _kill_ the Ripper.

"I'm older than you, you know," Georgie says in his ear and the train pulls to a stop next to them, the conductor pushing open the door.

Emmett smiles sadly. "I know. That's not an excuse to die first."

Georgie draws her hood, the shining copper of her hair hidden behind the dark green of her coat. She wore it once to reflect her allegiance to the Rooks, to the assassins, but all of that is in the past now. Now the Rooks wear purple and want her dead.

"I'll bring him home," she promises.

Emmett doesn't leave the platform until the train is out of sight, Georgie imagines, but the train has barely left before she can't see him anymore, before he's been swallowed by the fog. Her heart starts to pound and her palms are sweaty. Abberline's letter burns in her pocket, a letter she was never supposed to read, never supposed to see, but she _has_.

She remembers again that night so long ago, standing on the platform in King's Cross and preparing to board a train with her family – without Jacob. Her mother had cried and clutched him tight, whispered that she loved him and that he better do as he says – he told them he'd be on the next train out to Crawley, that they'd see him soon, and the next thing Georgie had heard was that he was missing, killed, most likely, by the Ripper.

"I love you," Jacob had told Charlotte, while Georgie and Emmett grabbed their bags and readied to board the train. "Keep yourself safe, love, and I'll see you soon."

"You better," her mother had said, kissing him soundly, tearfully, and she hadn't wanted to let him go. If Georgie has any hope for her life, it's that she will survive this and find a man to love her like that, to cherish and protect her.

_If you can't fulfil your promise to my mother yourself_ , Georgie thinks, clenching her fists, _I'll just have to help you_.

Georgie's going to bring him home, whatever the cost, because Jack's not the only one with his own Creed, his own convictions.

_I am a Crawley_ , Georgie thinks, _and we endure_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's over and I'm not sure how to feel now that it is D:  
> Thank you all for your support and I hope you've enjoyed this silly little story as much as I enjoyed writing it. *cue cheesy author's note* If not for you guys and your support, I never would have finished this fic, so thank you! <3


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